The Death Eater

Harry followed Tidus to the informal dining room, sitting obediently across from Malfoy. He glared at the smug brat as one of the other House Elves began serving dinner, and Tidus fussed around him, setting his napkin on his lap and filling his glass with water. The Elf finally moved away, but only far enough to begin dishing the food onto his plate for him.

Harry was still feeling delicate from the Potion and emotional turmoil, and was not about to meekly eat from Malfoy’s table. He could barely handle the thought of food, and Malfoy’s supposed ownership of him, the casual way he ordered Harry around, was making his stomach rebel even more. He pushed the plate away from himself a little, slouching in the seat.

“Eat, Harry. You’ll need to keep your strength up, especially
after your time with the Dark Lord.” Harry glared at him again, angry that he was being treated like this; like Malfoy had the right to order him around. He pushed the plate away harder. “Eat, Harry, or I will be forced to punish you.” Malfoy gritted. Harry slammed away from the table, heedless of the dizziness this caused and suddenly furious.

“I’m not just something you can order around! You don’t own me; I don’t care what you think! It’s your stupid fault I can’t eat anyway, you and your disgusting potions making me ill just so you can have a baby!” Harry picked the plate up and, too enraged to care about the consequences, threw it at Malfoy.

Somehow, he wasn’t very surprised to feel his own magic draining away, pushed by the collar to displace the plate so it hit the wall several feet from its intended target. The drain on his magic, combined with his previous dizziness and the surge of adrenaline conspired to have him collapse to his knees, panting as fear replaced anger.

Malfoy stood out of his seat, the tight clench of his fist the only indication of his anger and he grabbed Harry upright, glaring at him. “Obviously you need some time to calm down and remember your place.” He snarled, dragging Harry down a corridor and two flights of stairs. Harry tried to fight, but his weakness and the Collar’s hold on him prevented his struggles. He sobbed softly as he was pushed into a cell, the door slamming shut and the heavy sound of the lock falling into place echoing in the room.

Harry scrambled weakly to the door, knocking and pushing at it, begging incoherently as he realised that Malfoy intended to leave him in here. The fears that had risen in him in Voldemort’s dungeons rose again to overwhelm him, and soon Harry passed out, still cowering by the door.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out when he came to, a fact that greatly disturbed him. The light in the room was no help either, as it came from a single torch high up on the wall; too high for Harry to reach. He stood up, still very weak and trembling from the cold and shock. He staggered as he stood, forced to lean against the wall as his only support.

The room was a little nicer than the one he’d stayed in while in Voldemort’s dubious care, he noticed. Perhaps a little bigger than his Cupboard, the bare stone walls and floor mean the room was freezing cold. Thankfully he had been left a pile of blankets in the corner, his only means of keeping himself warm and marginally comfortable. He also had a small object in the corner that he realised was for his bodily waste. He was grateful to Malfoy for the consideration, as he was certain that normally the guests here would have to just try to avoid their waste; however he was also frightened, it was a definite sign he’d be in here for more than just a few hours.

He angrily knocked over the only other item in the room, a glass of water that neither broke, nor spilled. He snarled wordlessly at it, the object a sudden focus of his rage, before slumping in the pile of blankets and huddling them around his shaking body.

Harry was unaware of time passing in his small cell, aware only of the shaking coldness that barely faded as he huddled in on himself. He existed in a half-conscious state, often drift off for what felt like moments but may well have been eternities. Finally, a few moments or hours later, he fell back into a true sleep; curled up against the wall of his cell.

He woke once again to find the room seemingly unchanged, and yet he felt and odd sense of disturbance. The glass that had been on its side was now righted and the torch had been refreshed, making the room brighter, but barely. He was no longer shaking, but his extremities were still cold, and his throat was raw with thirst. He sighed, feeling a little defeated as he reached for the glass and drank some of the cool liquid, sighing in real pleasure as it soothed his throat and his stomach, now twisted in hunger. He drained the glass rapidly, but regretted it as the water settled to heavily on his stomach and made him feel sick. The glass refilled itself as soon as it was empty, which relieved him. He’d spent too long dehydrated, having no water in Voldemort’s cell, and it had caused a headache. He realised that he hadn’t relieved himself since the first humiliating day of his capture, a sign of dangerous levels of dehydration, and began sipping on the water. Defeated or not, he had to keep himself alive, and he didn’t like to think what Malfoy would do to him if he didn’t drink anything.

With his thirst satisfied and his body warmed, Harry found that he had little left to focus on. He was still exhausted, and would relish the chance to sleep; hoping that when he woke up again the pain would all be gone. He doubted it, however, and he was a little fearful of what would find him while he slept.

The sudden flicker of the torch was Harry’s only warning before it extinguished itself, leaving him huddled in darkness. Terror grabbed him, bad memories of battling to protect himself from the rats and the insects in Voldemort’s cell assaulted him, and Harry’s panicked imagination conjured up the sounds he feared, rat’s feet in the corners, the low hum of insects searching for a place to bite. He huddled further in his blankets, the panic catching his breath until finally it became too much for him and he passed out again.

Harry was woken this time by the banging of doors, before he heard his lock jangle and open. Malfoy was stood in the doorway, the light from the hallway behind him illuminating him and making him appear to Harry’s feverish, hurt mind as an angel sent to save him. The soft hands that gentled his hair back from his brow and sent soothing warmth through his body only increased the impression.

The angel tucked the blankets more tightly around Harry, and suddenly he was being lifted, carried away. He tucked his head trustingly under his angel’s chin and nuzzled into his warmth, trusting the angel to take care of him.