Chronicles of Madness and Loss

Chronicles of Madness and Loss

Start:

A diary, journal, or notebook. I refuse to decide.

I realize the traditional way to do this sort of thing is to place the date and possibly time at the beginning of each entry. That would, however, require me to know the date and/or time. A certain lack of windows, clocks, calendars, or any other method of tracking the passage of time makes this impossible. So, start.

And possibly finish as well, I guess.

I have no idea why they have given me this book. It showed up in the cell . . . hmm, well, a not insignificant period of time ago. Boredom has finally beaten me, and I have opened it, and started to fill it in. After all, if they go to the trouble, I might as well too.

The only thing I can think is that they're trying to drive me mad. Maybe they already succeeded and that's why they gave me the book. Of course, if I'm mad, I ought to think that I'm perfectly sane, so maybe I can presume I'm sane because I worry that I'm going mad.

Down that path, madness lies.

I have been alone for as long as I have been down here. There are no other prisoners, or at least none I can hear, see, talk to. There are no guards.

There must be guards, or I wouldn't still be here.

But no, there are no guards. The food is delivered into the cell by a spell. It may have been cast years ago and only become active when there is someone here. I don't know.

The door is locked. Firmly locked. Also, quite thick. My wand is not here, and so I am.

Damn them all.

Start:

I'm not entirely sure whom I'm angrier with, the ones holding me down here, or the ones who got me into this mess. For that matter, I can't even be sure that it's not my own fault I'm in this damned cell.

I guess I could be glad that I'm not dead, but seeing as there's no proof that this isn't just hell I don't find the thought very comforting.

Although, as hells go, I must say this is pretty tame. Me, alone in a cell, with only my thoughts and a book to write them in. Not really the fire and brimstone thing, is it? And while the lack of mirror or basic sanitary features is uncomfortable, I would hardly call it eternal torment.

Although, I guess it could be purgatory, couldn't it? Maybe this is the waiting room for the final judgement. Maybe the apocalypse came while I was in this prison.

At times the war certainly seemed like it.

But I guess then Potter would be seen as the Christ figure, and I just can't stomach that one.

Start:

It still doesn't make sense why they should give me this book. If it is to stave off madness, it seems as though they could have found a better way. And if it is to encourage it, well, well, well I don't know.

I have thought, in some of my more or possibly less lucid moments (depending on when you think I'm closer to madness,) perhaps my jailers wish me to write my confession. Damn myself and save them the trouble?

Well I won't give them the satisfaction.

Start:

Although, I guess it wouldn't make a difference, would it? I'll either die, or I won't, be killed or I won't. Time is the only issue, and I haven't known the time in a very long time.

So, if they want me to confess, I shall confess. Here is my confession . . .

Or, would that be giving into their game? Playing into their hands? Their feet?

I feel like screaming.

Start:

Screaming doesn't do any good when there's no one to hear you.

Start:

I have been the cause of many, many deaths. I have been the direct and indirect cause of pain and suffering. Friends and enemies have died at my hand, by my will, against my will, for my leaders and lords and friends and enemies.

Part of the pain is that I no longer know which were which and who was what.

Potter, Lucius, Voldemort, the Weasel, Dumbledore, Professor Snape.

Not that they're dead.

Not that I'd know.

But still, I confess. People are dead, I have had a hand in some of those deaths, a foot in others. One time my left elbow was involved, although that may have been a hallucination.

Start:

Last time period (which for the sake of argument with the people who aren't here I shall call the night) I heard a sound. It was the first sound I had heard in a very, very long time period.

It sounded like . . .

Well, the fact that it sounded at all was something of a miracle.

But at any rate, it sounded like thunder.

Very close thunder.

Loud, rumbley, bumping thunder.

Or like a building falling down, I guess. But thunder is a nicer image to me. I like this building.

Well, clearly not the dungeons.

But still, you live in a house for 22 years, you develop some sort of friendly feeling to the place.

Although, I guess if I'm kept down here for 22 years it might be a different story.

Start:

If the sound from the aforementioned time period managed to make it through the wards and walls it must have been very loud.

The other option is that it did not make it through the wards but rather was already on the inside, which would mean it was very close.

And with these conjectures, I have learned, or rather deduced, or at any rate I suppose . . . hmm. Absolutely nothing. Damn, here I thought I might be getting somewhere.

Start:

My arm has stopped itching.

It's been itching like mad for the past relatively small time period (perhaps an hour, perhaps two,) and now it's stopped.

Good lords, the scar is going away.

Well, hell.

The king is dead, long live the king.

This leaves me with some worry.

If they remember I'm down here my friend-enemies will probably come and kill me.

However, if they don't then I will more than likely be stuck down here forever. I sincerely doubt my enemy-friends will have any idea where to look, or even if it's worth looking.

After all, I've been here for, for, for a very long time. They probably think I was caught and killed.

Start:

It almost feels as though now I ought to start trying to time my days. At least marking when I wake up and so on.

But no. It's not worth it.

Besides, I don't really want to know how long I'll be here until I lose the ability to count, or the stability to make markings on the wall.

I don't want to know how many marks I can fit on these four walls until I die of either boredom or kill myself.

Because I'm not going to starve. The spells that feed me seem to be working just fine.

Start:

Well, now I do think I'm going mad.

Hearing things is one of the first signs of madness, and I keep hearing these little scratching noises, or thuds and thumps all time period. (It might be day, it might be night, it might be some third option which no one has ever discovered because they're all so happy with the first two choices.)

This can't be a good thing.

Start:

Ok, now I'm definitely hearing things. Thumps, bumps, yells.

Yep, yells. Someone is out there, and it sounds like they're trying to get it.

I wonder how close they have to be for me to be able to hear them, or for them to be able to hear me. I know there are silencing spells on the walls here, so in theory it shouldn't be possible for me to hear anything.

But, the fact remains . . .

Of course, if that rumebly sound from the other day was the house falling down the wards and spells which had been placed could have broken.

Oh, there's another yell. My, but those are getting loud.

Actually, it almost sounds as though they're getting closer too. But . . .

***

Wham, wham, wham. The sound of running footsteps echoed down the hallway. Draco Malfoy looked up from his journal towards the door.

"Is there anyone here?" a voice called out.

Draco paused for a second, blinking at this sudden interruption of his thoughts, but then processed the meaning of the words. "Yes!" he cried out, his voice sounding hoarse from disuse. "Yes, I'm in here."

"Who is that?" the voice called again.

The blond thought about this, wondering if he ought to answer truthfully. He didn't know who this voice belonged to, or which side of the war it was on. But, he finally decided, anything would be better than remaining in this cell. At least if they decided to kill him things would end quickly. "Malfoy," he called out. "I'm Draco Malfoy."

"Malfoy?? Good gods!" there was no disguising the shock in the voice on the other side of the door. "Wait here," the voice ordered.

***

Start:

Huh, 'wait here' indeed. Where on earth would I go.

Well, this may very well be the proverbial it.

At least it won't be so damned lonely anymore. Ok, ok, plan, need a plan. If this is my father or one of my prior co-workers, I'm pretty much assured of a slow painful death. Huh.

Of course, depending on which of the members of the other side it is, it's entirely possible that it'll be a slow painful death either way, so . . .

Oh, someone's coming back. This is going to be . . . well, I don't know what it's going to be, but I probably won't . . .

***

The steps coming down the hall this time were measured and much quieter, but Draco could still make them out. They became slowly louder, then stopped outside his door. He heard a slight sound and then a voice called out "Alohomora!"

Given what he knew about the dungeon's defenses Draco was very surprised when the door to his cell swung open. Standing in the door, with the light from the hall coming in behind the person, Draco could just make out a man's figure.

"There you are Malfoy," the stranger said, and Draco recognized the voice as belonging to Harry Potter. "We were wondering where you'd gotten to," the other man finished.

"Here I am indeed Potter," Draco said, dryly. "What are you going to do about it?" He stood to face the other man, letting his book fall shut.

"Well, my plan was to let you out and take you to Dumbledore, but if you've got a better idea . . .?" Harry trailed off, grinning.

"Why would he want to see me?" Draco asked. "I failed, didn't I?"

"Come off it," Harry said. "You didn't get captured until almost half a year before the end of the war, and your record was great. Besides, we need to know what happened when they caught you, debriefing and all that."

"Oh," Draco sighed, then followed the other man out of the cell and down the hall. Making their way up the stairs out of the dungeons Draco could finally see what the rumbling noise he'd heard a week ago had been. All around him there were cracked walls, fallen stones, and other signs of destruction, and by the time they reached the top of the stairs there weren't any more walls at all, only the hole in the ground they crawled out of. Malfoy manor had been leveled, completely destroyed, and all around Draco could see wizards magically lifting rubble, searching the remains.

"We've been looking for you for weeks, Malfoy," Harry said. "And trying to clear up this mess has been taking almost 20 trained wizards, working 16 hours a day to get as far as we have."

"Awful lot of work to put into one little spy, isn't it?"

"You were the best," Harry allowed, smiling at Draco. "Besides," he added, "it's not like we had anything better to do."

"What do you mean?" Draco looked confused, not really understanding. His time down in the cell had taken an awful lot out of him.

"The war's over Draco," Harry said, quietly, coming to a stop at the top of one of the piles of rubble that blocked their path. "We won."

"Oh," was all Draco could come up with for a second. "Did we?"

Harry paused at this, thinking back over the losses: friends, family, and acquaintances. He thought about poor Ginny Weasley, whose fiancé had been killed, and Dean Thomas, who had been staying with his best friend, Seamus Finnigan, since the raid which had killed both of his Muggle parents and destroyed his home. The list of the dead, the missing, the injured, and the bereaved ran through his mind. Finally Harry thought of his godfather, Sirius Black, and Sirius' best friend, Remus Lupin, whose sacrifice had distracted Voldemort long enough for Harry and Professor Dumbledore to complete the spell which had robbed the Dark Lord of the powers that had been keeping him alive. "Well," he finally said. "Maybe not, but they definitely lost."

And now it was Draco's turn to think about the casualties of the war, the friends and enemies he had referred to in his journal. He looked around him at the destruction of his childhood home, the burned and destroyed grounds. Fire and wreckage surrounded them, and in his heart he realized that in the months he'd been in that cell many more people had died, probably including his mother, his father, the comrades in arms he had betrayed, and the fighters for justice he had betrayed them to. He thought of the ones he knew were dead, childhood friends who had been sent to Durmstrang and never thought twice about joining the Death Eaters, and his old Quidditch captain, Marcus Flint, killed by an auror on Draco's information. Even poor Blaise Zabini, his old roommate, who's artist's soul wouldn't allow him to fight and hurt people, but had gotten him killed instead for refusing to join his parent's Lord. "Yes," Draco agreed. "They certainly did."

Harry gave a sigh, then looked back at the spy he'd been searching for, the boy turned man who had fought alongside him by fighting against him. "Come on Draco," he said at last. "Dumbledore will be waiting."