Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ On Hollow Ground ❯ Chapter 2 ( Chapter 2 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

I was jolted awake from a dreamless slumber into a living nightmare. Throbbing pain pulsed through my head, stabbing my consciousness with each heartbeat. As I blinked, the blurred, shifting shapes of my surroundings swirled before my eyes, leaving me disoriented without my glasses. Unfamiliar grey walls and ghostly silhouettes flitting through my vision disoriented me, and I couldn't grasp where I was or what was happening. I felt groggy and incapacitated, as if drugged by some potion that had sapped my strength.

A sudden chill gripped my skin, making me shiver. Had the air truly grown cold, or was my mind playing tricks on me? The faint, musty scent of damp stone and aged parchment flooded my senses, stirring up deep, unsettling memories that only heightened my present confusion. Where on earth was I?

The cacophony of disjointed voices surrounded me, their words blending into an indecipherable roar. Countless hands gripped my arm, their crushing force constricting me. I whimpered and strained to break free, but their unyielding hold kept me trapped, like iron shackles binding me to a nightmare. Summoning my resolve, I fought to escape, only for them to tighten their grip even further. The agonised cry that tore from my throat echoed painfully through the oppressive silence.

As the world around me unravelled, flashes of memory flooded my mind. Laughter twisted into something sinister, taunting voices piercing the night. These distorted into a looming, ominous figure. Voldemort's pale, pitiless face surged in my thoughts, gripping me with dread. Panic seized me, and I fought against the force pinning me down.

“Ready… Dark Mark,” someone muttered, a voice low and sinister. “Call him.”

Call who? A sense of dread and panic overwhelmed me as my muddled mind fought against the confusion. My heart raced in fear as I struggled against the crushing grip that only tightened.

Searing agony erupted from my scar, a blinding wave of raw, agonising pain that tore a desperate scream from my throat. Trapped in the grip of anguish, my voice was lost. Frantic and desperate, I strained against those restraining me, but to no avail. My senses were overwhelmed by the chaos and torment, each frantic heartbeat echoing my terror.

“He’s ready… lord… ready… receive… Mark,” the voice continued, filled with an excitement that curled my stomach into knots.

Dark Mark? Who was ready to receive it? Panic gripped me as I struggled to make sense of the bewildering scene unfolding before my eyes. Who were they trying to brand? I grasped blindly for any shred of understanding, but the haze clouding my mind rendered everything a blurry, indistinct mess. The faces around me flickered in and out of focus, like spectral figures in a mist-shrouded painting.

A chilling voice commanded, "Bring… potion… witness… occasion… must not miss..."

Potion? A heavy unease had settled in my chest, impossible to shake. Shadows flickered against the stone walls, malformed shapes dancing unsettlingly. The air throbbed with tension. I glanced around, noting the whispered conversations and furtive glances thrown my way. It felt like I was being watched, excluded from some hidden plot.

Hands suddenly pried open my mouth, catching me off guard. A sickly-sweet liquid rushed in, causing me to choke as I desperately tried to force it back. Panic gripped my chest, constricting my breath as I clawed at the air, fighting against their unyielding grasp to no avail.

A profound shift jolted my senses. The thick fog that had enveloped my mind slowly dissipated, awakening my perceptions with electrifying clarity. Every subtle sound and murmur now echoed with piercing sharpness. The crackling hearth and musty scent of stone walls assaulted my heightened, hyper-alert awareness.

Yet when I blinked and strained to focus, my vision remained blurred, distorted like reflections in broken glass. Instinctively, I tried to rise from where I lay, but an unseen force held me down, undeniably binding me in place. Then, a towering, ominous shadow emerged.

As the masked figure in the billowing dark cloak came into focus, my heart pounded in alarm—a Death Eater. A silencing spell was cast, sealing my lips. I lay trembling on the cold stone table of the Slytherin common room, every fibre of my being desperate to break free. Nearby, a crackling fire cast long, ominous shadows across the familiar walls. My heart raced, pounding against my ribs with relentless, thunderous force.

“Welcome back, Harry.” Voldemort's smooth, terrifying voice slithered through the air like smoke, wrapping around me and suffocating my thoughts with his twisted, taunting greeting. His crimson eyes glowed with malicious delight, filling me with dread that churned in the pit of my stomach.

Malfoy's mocking smirk, Crabbe's brutish laughter, Goyle's vacant gaze, and Pansy Parkinson's lip-biting excitement—the familiar Slytherin faces encircled me. They were spectators in this grand, horrific spectacle, and I was the unfortunate centrepiece.

Voldemort's icy gaze bored into me as he tilted his skull-like head, feigning concern. "You have rested well, I trust?" he purred, but I knew his words were merely a twisted game. His voice dripped with malice as he leaned in, hissing, "I want you to fully grasp and appreciate what is about to happen."

Overwhelming dread gripped me as I desperately scanned the room, seeking any way out. But I was helplessly bound, and my struggles only tightened the unrelenting restraints around me.

Voldemort's icy gaze narrowed as a malevolent grin spread across his pale features. "At last, the moment I have so long anticipated has arrived." He paused, savouring the weight of his words. "Though I have committed this same act countless times before, never has it held the same profound significance as it does now."

A bone-chilling shudder rippled down my spine as the Death Eaters slowly peeled back their sleeves, revealing the ominous Dark Mark seared into their very flesh. Voldemort then leaned in close, his ragged, putrid breath washing over me and stirring a wave of sickening dread within the pit of my stomach. With a sinking, dreadful certainty, I knew his vile intentions—to brand me, to corrupt me, to ensnare me forever in his malevolent, nightmarish world.

“Yes, Harry,” he replied, his voice thick with saccharine certainty. "Your assumption is entirely accurate."

Paralysed by fear, a strangled cry tore from my trembling lips. Frantic to escape his clutches, I writhed and strained against the unyielding bindings, every frenzied movement fuelled by raw, primal panic. I would never surrender to him, steely determination hardening my resolve to prevent him from claiming me as his own.

The haunting stories of the Dark Mark had seared themselves deep into my mind—how it bound its bearer to Voldemort, like a sinister, strangling vine coiling around one's very essence. The mere thought of it made my stomach twist with revulsion. This was no simple insignia but a cruel sentence, a shackle that tethered its victim to the abyss of darkness itself.

The Slytherins' laughter erupted in a cacophony of cruel delight, fueling Voldemort's twisted enjoyment of my torment. Cornered like a trapped animal, each desperate bid for freedom only tightened the invisible noose around me. Mercilessly, the walls closed in as the crackling flames seemed to mock my frantic struggle.

Voldemort's chilling voice sliced through the thick tension as he towered before his captivated audience, cloaked in ominous black robes that seemed to swallow the dim light. "Do you want to know how the Dark Mark would feel, Harry?" he asked. The Slytherins leaned in, enraptured, their eyes glinting with a twisted mix of ambition and malice.

Overwhelmed by his intense, piercing stare, I desperately yearned to fade into the shadows, but my body remained frozen and paralysed with terror.

"This highest honour is reserved only for my innermost circle of devoted followers," he proclaimed in a chilling tone. "You should consider yourself truly special, Harry." The group erupted in a sickly, mocking chuckle that echoed the palpable fear pulsing through me. Special? As if being marked and chosen was some sort of privilege, rather than a fate worse than death. I swallowed hard, my apprehension only further amusing and delighting him.

"But unlike you, Harry, my followers eagerly embraced my gift,” Voldemort sneered, his voice dripping with malice. “It bestowed upon them unimaginable power—they are now impervious to many things." The crowd nodded hungrily, their eyes gleaming with fanatical devotion, like a pack of wolves scenting fresh prey. Their rapt attention thundered in my ears, making my heart race with dread.

Voldemort's icy gaze narrowed as he spoke, "I wouldn't expect the same to happen to you." He paused, a cruel smirk tugging at the corners of his thin lips. "You may experience intermittent discomfort, perhaps even more. It all depends on your feelings toward me." Voldemort's voice dripped with menace as he added, "And we both know how you feel about me, Harry."

The cruel jeers and scornful stares pierced my soul like icy blades. A torrent of unspoken emotions—terror, revulsion, and a smouldering rage—flooded my senses, overwhelming me. The way they regarded me, the way Voldemort had warped my feelings, awakened a darker power within.

"From this moment on, you are bound to me for eternity,” Voldemort declared with a frigid, unyielding tone. “There is no escape, not until your last breath." He paused, his eyes boring into me. "I will always be intimately connected to your very being—your emotions, your weaknesses, your strengths. Harry, you can never break free of me, now or ever. You are mine, forever."

His venomous words snaked around my throat, constricting my airway until I could barely draw a breath. I was trapped in a desperate battle—a dark fate tethered to the Wizarding World's most notorious dark wizard on one side and my own unyielding determination to defy him on the other.

Frantically, I scanned the crowd, desperately seeking allies, but the faces I encountered were twisted with ambition and cruelty, submerged in a dark, approving tide. They eagerly embraced Voldemort's power, willing to sacrifice their very souls for a fleeting taste of strength.

Then it happened. Voldemort suddenly materialised mere inches away in a blinding flash, his icy, bony fingers clamping down on my arm with crushing force. Searing pain and panic shot through me as the invisible bindings tightened their relentless grip, sapping my strength like a constricting serpent. I was utterly powerless against his overwhelming might, trapped in the vice-like hold that threatened to crush my very spirit.

The cruel, mocking laughter of the Death Eaters encircled us, dripping with predatory anticipation and sadistic glee as they eagerly awaited the unfolding spectacle. Their eyes gleamed with wicked excitement, glimmering with delight at my helplessness.

Voldemort's chilling voice snaked through the air as he began to chant, preparing to cast the spell that would sear an unbreakable bond between us. I could only stare in horror, a whimper of pure terror escaping my muffled, bound lips. Choking dread consumed me, my cries reduced to a soft, despairing whine as I desperately fought to scream or plead for mercy.

The searing, agonising pain erupted as the Dark Mark was seared into my flesh. It was an unbearable, all-consuming torment—a piercing, stabbing anguish that radiated through my arm, as if countless knives were violently tearing into me from every direction. The sheer, overwhelming torment was excruciating, and I let out a desperate, agonised scream, tears streaming helplessly down my burning, anguished cheeks.

With each pulse, the oppressive darkness crept deeper, seeping into the core of my being and branding me as Voldemort's servant. I was now irrevocably bound to him, the connection growing ever more pronounced, defined, and powerful—a bond more potent than the lightning bolt scar etched upon my forehead.

I desperately willed the torment to end, to let the darkness take me. In that agonising moment, all I could feel was a raw, visceral pain unlike anything I had ever endured, eclipsing my every thought and dream until, finally, mercifully, the welcoming embrace of the darkness enveloped me.

 

 

 

The searing pain radiating through my arm jolted me awake with a start. Weak light crept in from the horizon, casting feeble shadows that obscured my vision and hindered my attempts to piece together the fragmented remnants of my memory.

Panic surged as I strained to recall the last twenty-four hours—the chaos in the courtyard, the echo of spells, the clash of wills, and then... darkness. I frantically fumbled on the bedside table, my fingers desperately grazing the cool wood but finding nothing, not even my glasses. A rising sense of dread gripped me as I struggled to make sense of my disorienting surroundings.

The fragmented memories came flooding back—Dumbledore's lifeless body, Voldemort and his Death Eaters swarming Hogwarts, the crunch of my glasses beneath Voldemort’s feet, the cold confinement of the Slytherin common room. A sharp gasp escaped my lips as the realization hit me. The nauseous knot twisting in my stomach confirmed the horrifying truth. No, this was no dream—the terror gripping my racing heart was all too real.

My gaze drifted to my left arm, resting on the bed, where a dark shape emerged from the shadows. Gritting my teeth against rising fear, I blinked, hoping to briefly clear my blurred vision and make sense of the dark shape. There it was—the snake, unmistakably alive, slithering around the skull, throbbing in pain and pulsing with an eerie, unnatural rhythm, as if echoing the heartbeat of darkness. The sight of it had haunted me before, its oppressive presence lingering in the shadows of my nightmares. But to confront it on my own flesh was overwhelming, stealing my very breath away. It had become an inescapable torment.

The damned symbol seemed to mock me, coiling around my forearm. Its presence was more vivid than any scar, its insidious pull evident with each breath. Desperate, I dug my nails into the skin surrounding the mark, scratching and clawing as if I could peel it off. My fingers slipped and slid across the surface, finding the familiar pain that sounded like a scream—my scream—echoing against the stone walls.

The angry, inflamed skin on my arm stood out in vivid contrast against the dark tattoo. No matter how hard I scratched and clawed at it, the mark refused to fade. I shook my head, struggling in vain to hold back the tears as my breathing grew ragged and uneven. Blood oozed from the angry welts, slowly dripping down to stain the sheets and floor beneath me.

Voldemort's cruel, cackling laughter suddenly reverberated through the depths of my mind, twisting my stomach into agonising knots. Searing anger erupted like a raging inferno through my veins as his haunting, mocking refrain taunted and amplified my growing frustration—as if the vile creature had been eagerly anticipating this moment, the moment I finally allowed myself to shatter under the weight of his torment.

"No matter how hard you try, Harry, the Dark Mark is seared into your flesh forever," he hissed, his venomous words slithering through my mind. Each agonising, malicious syllable reverberated with the same dark sorcery that had scorched its twisted mark upon my skin.

The curse pulsed through my clenched fist, its mark throbbing relentlessly. I couldn't ignore it, no matter how hard I tried to suppress the pain. Exposed and vulnerable, I felt like a spotlight was cruelly illuminating every secret I harboured. I had nowhere to hide, no way to pretend I was truly free.

And then, as if mocking wasn’t enough for him, he inflicted pain on my arm like a brand being seared into my flesh over and over. The sudden, overwhelming jolt caught me completely off guard, shattering my defences. I let out a raw, desperate scream that echoed hauntingly through the empty room. Crumpling to the floor, I clutched my arm where the Dark Mark burnt with relentless, mocking intensity—the torment more than I could endure.

Each wave of pain felt like shards of glass cutting through me—so personal, so intimate. He was peeling away the layers of hope I had wrapped around myself, deliberately leaving my soul bare and exposed before him. I wanted to scream for help; I wanted someone, anyone, to hear me. But we were alone in this struggle—he and I. Just as I reached my breaking point, the darkness flooded over me, his laughter mixing with my cries and drowning me in despair.

Lying on the floor, I clutched my profusely bleeding arm, unsure of how much time had passed. Though I risked bleeding out, I no longer cared. Death would be a welcome escape from the hell surrounding me.

But those thoughts all seemed like a dream when suddenly, impossibly, the blood ceased. Glancing down, I gazed in wonder at my skin—once a vivid canvas of crimson suffering, now softly glistening in the dim light, as if caressed by the most delicate, soothing touch. To my profound astonishment, the gaping wound had sealed itself, the skin seamlessly knitting back together, as if the very fabric of the universe had paused to undo my torment.

Blinking rapidly, I struggled to process the jarring reality before me. This couldn't be an illusion. No, I could feel the throbbing pain still. Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself up, my body sliding shakily against the cold wall. My arm felt tender, strangely alive, pulsing with something I couldn’t comprehend.

Was this Voldemort's twisted method of torture—to inflict pain and then heal it, leaving me unable to escape the haunting thoughts? That unsettling idea echoed endlessly in my mind. In my sixteen years, I had witnessed much, but nothing could rival the all-consuming darkness that now shrouded me, each agonising moment stretching on infinitely.

The residual power of his strikes still crackled through me like electricity. He had penetrated beyond the surface, burrowing deep into my soul, where pain twisted into bewilderment and the crushing weight of my terrors enveloped me. With each act of torment, I slipped further from my true self, becoming a mere vessel for his malevolence.

How many times would I feel the scorching fire of agony, only to be pulled back and mended together again? How many times would I close my eyes, hoping to wake up from this nightmare, only to find him still there?

“This is just the beginning,” Voldemort had said. And now I wondered when it would all end.

The harsh reality crashed down upon me, suffocating and inescapable. The ominous dark mark, the devastating losses of Dumbledore and Sirius, Snape's unforgivable betrayal—it all weighed heavily, a chill that cut through me to the bone. Voldemort's very presence at Hogwarts filled me with a dread that no warmth could alleviate.

Desperate for respite, I shut my eyes, seeking solace in the recesses of my mind. But all I could see were the faces of my friends—Ron, Hermione, and the members of Dumbledore's Army. Where were they now? Were they fighting valiantly, risking everything? Or were they in grave peril, perhaps even being tortured as I was? The uncertainty gripped me, twisting my insides with fear and anguish.

As I cautiously surveyed the dimly lit chamber, the oppressive silence seemed to seep from the dark green walls, creating an eerie, unsettling atmosphere. Looming before me, the Slytherin emblem—a serpent coiled around a silver and green crest—appeared to stare back with a sly, menacing gaze that sent a chill down my spine and caused my heart to pound. Raising a trembling hand to my forehead, I winced at the sticky warmth that met my fingertips. To my horror, they came away stained with a crimson sheen—I was bleeding.

Disorientation washed over me as I struggled to recall how I had ended up in this lavishly decorated yet oppressive room. Slowly, I sat up, the creaking bed sounding like the agonised groans of a caged beast. Despite the Slytherin elegance that adorned the space, an overwhelming sense of captivity permeated the air.

Panic clawed at my throat as I scrambled to my feet, stumbling slightly from dizziness and growing unease. Adrenaline surged through me as I frantically rushed to the door, yanking the handle in a desperate but futile attempt to escape. Locked—of course. A heavy, magically fortified door barred my way, trapping me like a caged animal pacing its enclosure, unable to break free.

Consumed by desperation, I pressed my ear against the frigid wood, straining to detect any sound beyond the confines of this unknown room. But there was nothing, just an oppressive, eerie silence.

Dazed, I surveyed the unfamiliar room. My Gryffindor robes had been replaced by their Slytherin counterparts. The once vibrant red and gold ties now shimmered in mocking shades of green and silver on the bed beside me. My belongings, adorned with serpentine motifs, lay scattered about—the books I recognised as my own, the quills transformed to resemble slithering snakes across the pages. This twisted dream refused to release me; the magic that imprisoned me here would not let me wake.

Collapsing onto the bed, a flood of unwelcome tears overwhelmed me. Simmering anger fuelled a growing sense of helplessness.

I was trapped among those who embraced the darkness, willing to betray anyone to seize power. The mere thought chilled me to the bone. Subsumed by their hatred, I felt every remaining thread of hope being consumed by the shadows of despair.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to block out the haughty laughter of the Death Eaters, the crushing weight of my own fear, and the deafening silence that gripped my heart. All I wanted was to disappear, to curl up, and become invisible.

“What now?” I muttered, staring at the ceiling as though it would provide me with an answer. “What am I supposed to do?” 

The dark corners of the room whispered mockingly as the cold air gripped tighter, but there was no response. In that moment, an urgent need to scream ripped through me, leaving me more isolated than ever before.

The ominous creak of the wooden door jolted me back to the present, snapping me out of my reverie. Adrenaline surging, I leapt to my feet, my heart pounding with a rising sense of dread. Frantically, my eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for my wand, but it was nowhere to be seen. I had to find something—anything—that I could use to defend myself. Memories of my Defence Against the Dark Arts training flashed through my mind. Was I about to be forced into a fight? I couldn't let fear consume me, not now.

Draco Malfoy's sinister grin stretched across his pale, menacing face as he entered the room. His mere presence ignited a raw, visceral hatred within me, as if the shadows of the past were whispering my most bitter regrets directly into my ear.

"Potter," he spat, his voice dripping with malice as he closed the door behind him. There he stood before me, an embodiment of everything that had gone so terribly wrong.

I remembered the screams of terrified students echoing hauntingly through the shadowy courtyard of Hogwarts as darkness crept into every nook and cranny. A profound silence then fell, crushing the heart, in the aftermath of Dumbledore's tragic death. Whenever that sorrow threatened to overwhelm me, the image of Malfoy—grinning like a deranged madman amid the Death Eaters—would resurface, a sickening reminder of his successful betrayal.

How could he act as if nothing worse had happened?

A burning, all-consuming rage seized me, its fiery tendrils coiling tighter with every mocking, contemptuous laugh that spilt from Malfoy’s sneering lips. I ached to viciously attack him, to pummelled his smug form relentlessly, to unleash a devastating magical onslaught that would leave him cowering in utter, helpless terror. If only I could just have my wand back…

Rage and desperation surging through me, I lunged forward, desperate to unleash my anguish. But the instant I moved, a blinding, searing pain tore through my arm, causing me to reel back in shock. I clutched my throbbing forearm, as if I could physically tear away the agony. "What...?" I gasped, my voice laced with bewilderment, unable to comprehend why I had suddenly been rendered completely immobile.

Malfoy's cold, mocking laughter reverberated viciously through the tense silence of the room. He thrust his arm forward, the black tattoo of the Dark Mark coiling menacingly around his pale skin like a slithering serpent, and sneered, "What's the matter, Potter? Can't you bring yourself to harm one of us?" His lip curled with contempt. "Someone who bears the Dark Mark? You could never hurt a fellow Slytherin, not when you're already one of us. The dark mark binds us together, you see—we are united, and you are powerless against it."

The pain radiated through my arm, an ache that pulsed with each heartbeat. The taunt cut deeper than any spell, its cruel words carving into me. It wasn't simply the words themselves, but the heavy implication that hung in the air, suffocating me. That familiar rage bubbled up within, mingling dangerously with a creeping sense of despair. This was more than mere anger—it was a strangling frustration that left me feeling utterly impotent, shackled not just physically but mentally as well.

Malfoy's malignant grin widened as he showcased the Dark Mark tattoo etched into his forearm, a twisted trophy. "By touching this, Potter, I can summon the Dark Lord himself," he hissed. "He's given me the power to do it, just for you. Imagine it—the Dark Lord punishing you whenever and wherever he pleases. Isn't that poetic?" Malfoy's eyes glinted with sadistic delight at the prospect.

Malfoy was right—the Dark Mark had forged an unwanted bond between them—one I never wished to be a part of. Though I could hear the whispers of Malfoy's grim satisfaction, his words chilled me. The gleam in Malfoy's eyes was chillingly pleased, as if this knowledge were a weapon he wielded.

His words hit me like a sucker punch, sending my mind reeling. The prospect of aligning with those who had inflicted so much harm, of being powerless to oppose them, felt like a cage more confining than any physical prison. Paralysed, I could no longer fight back, shield the vulnerable, or defend myself against those bent on causing me harm. I stood there, my own inaction weighing me down, leaving me gasping for air.

“I—” I started, but the words caught in my throat. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to break free from the mental chains binding me. Malfoy laughed, an unsettling sound that lingered in the tepid air.

“Scared, Potter?” Malfoy sneered. “You should be. I've secured a direct connection to the Dark Lord. I never imagined breaking you would be this effortless."

A molten fury consumed me, its edges scorching and jagged. "Why are you doing this?" I snarled, my voice dripping with venomous resentment. My heart thundered in a frenzied, disbelieving rhythm, pulsing with raw, unadulterated rage. "Didn't you feel even a shred of regret for what you've done? Because of you, Dumbledore is dead. And now, you take sick pleasure in watching me tortured for fighting for what's right?"

Malfoy's face hardened, his expression an icy mask of indifference. "Shut up," he spat, his voice low and dripping with venom. "You have no idea what I endured just to survive. I did what I had to!" Clenching his fists, a fleeting glimmer of pain flickered in his steely grey eyes before vanishing, betraying the anguish beneath his callous exterior.

I glared at Malfoy, my voice dripping with contempt. "Do you actually think that justifying your cowardice makes it acceptable?" I spat, struggling to hold back my disgust. "You've let fear control your every move, Malfoy. You're nothing but a pawn for those hungry for power!"

Chest heaving, he staggered towards me. Despite the white-hot fury coursing through my veins, a pang of sympathy tugged at my heart as I took in the ravages of his life—the deep lines etched into his haggard face, the defeated slump of his shoulders. Yet the scorching embers of my indignation drove me to confront him.

My voice trembled with emotion as I spoke, the weight of my words heavy in the air. "You had a choice, Malfoy. You could have chosen a different path." I had borne witness to his internal turmoil, yet never fathomed it would culminate in such profound betrayal, unflinching cruelty, and a complete unravelling of his moral fibre.

His face contorted with a turbulent blend of fury and remorse as he shook his head. "Do you really think you understand the immense pressure I was under? You have no idea! I had no choice—they would have killed my family if I didn't comply."

“Then fight back!” I urged, my frustration spilling over. “Why would you join them and turn against the ideals Dumbledore stood for? This is not about survival, Malfoy—it's about surrender."

A flicker of something—something like understanding—passed across his face. For a moment, I thought I had finally gotten through to him, but then his defensive walls slammed back into place. Turning away, he said quietly, almost to himself, "You don't know what it's like to have everything taken from you. Maybe I did what I had to. Maybe I did what I thought would protect me."

“Protecting you at the cost of innocence?” I countered, my voice rising. “Look around you! This is the world you’ve chosen to perpetuate—a world where fear reigns and power is all that matters. Can't you see how empty and meaningless it is?"

His intense gaze locked with mine, raw emotion flickering across his features. I glimpsed a rare vulnerability there, a feeling that seemed foreign to him but resonated with me.

Frustration laced his hushed, hissed words. “You think you’re so noble, standing there judging me?” he accused. "You can't even begin to understand the constant struggle of maintaining a façade, of simply surviving day-to-day." His voice dripped with anguish.

"Perhaps we've both been hiding behind masks," I replied in a hushed tone, my voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe we're just trying to survive, but in our own unique ways."

A shift rippled through the charged atmosphere between us. His eyes, wild with desperation, searched mine, craving a connection or shred of understanding, but the vulnerable moment quickly dissipated as the oppressive gloom reclaimed its hold.

“I’m tired of this,” Malfoy snarled suddenly, recoiling as if burnt. “I don’t owe you an explanation, Potter! Unlike you, I have duties to fulfil." Briefly glancing at my belongings, he returned his gaze to me. "The Dark Lord demands your presence in the Great Hall."

“Why?” It was the only question I could muster, but it slipped away the moment it reached my lips. Surely Voldemort had no intention of having breakfast with me, and yet the mere notion sent a shudder of discomfort rippling through me.

Malfoy shrugged. He had always been secretive, but this felt different. There was a certain urgency to his voice, a cold edge that suggested dire consequences if I didn’t comply. My cramping stomach dropped further at the thought.

I wasn’t afraid of Malfoy, despite his position or his parentage. In that moment, however, it struck me how swiftly the tides had turned—how perilously I was caught between worlds I never sought to be part of.

“I’m not going,” I declared, the sound of my own voice startling me for a brief moment. A surge of stubborn determination coursed through me. If Malfoy refused to reveal the truth, then I would steadfastly hold my ground, come what may.

"You have no choice," he retorted, exhaling a frustrated sigh. "Don't make this any harder than it has to be. The Dark Lord is granting you mercy, so you should be grateful."

“Mercy?” I repeated incredulously, biting back the anger that threatened to erupt. The mere suggestion of Voldemort offering mercy sent my heart racing. His twisted notion of benevolence was of no concern to me.

Malfoy's patience visibly waned as he glared at me, his silver-blond hair gleaming in the dim light. With exasperation etched on his face, he snapped, "Fine! Defy his orders. Be uncooperative and see where it gets you." Having delivered this ultimatum, he pivoted on his heel and strode away, leaving me alone to wrestle with my conflicted emotions.