Lost

Chapter Sixteen

Quandaries of a Quill

Harry felt like he was being suffocated on all sides, surrounded by thick, gray fog. He felt like he'd been clambering blindly for years, tripping over who knew what, his breath coming in rattling wheezes. He felt weak, dizzy, and his throat and lips were dry. Finally giving up, he lay down, hopeless, allowing whatever Fate might give him to come.

Slowly, he searched his pockets for something useful, eventually bringing out a notepad and quill. Leaning down so his nose almost touched the paper, squinting, he began to write:

Dear...Notepad,

Here I am, alone, thirsty, fearful. I don't even know where 'here' is. It was strange, what Draco said. He seemed to be compelled to the map, unlike I, who still am not happy to have been the one to fall into the map. It wasn't drawn on the wall, I swear. It was as if the wall was a portal, a window showing the map of this place I now am at. This really is a dilemma. I can't see anything in this fog, can't even hear. I barely even am aware of what I now write. It's difficult, being in this sort of predicament. Of course, I've been in worse, but this one, although not life threatening (at least, I don't think so), is irritating. I am bored, lonely, worried, thirsty, cold, blind, deaf...And it hurts. The air here, my skin feels as if it's being peeled off of me, and then slapped on again, harshly. My scar burns. But I know Draco isn't nearby anywhere, so that must mean Voldemort is. That is not a brightening thought, I tell you, notepad.

I was happy today, too. No one barged in on Draco and I last night when we went to his room after the incident at the Quidditch field. I had to leave eventually though, and like he said, we went further than before, but not quite...all the way. I'd really rather not think about that, or even write about it...I know that's sortof odd, what with me being seventeen now, but it's awfully difficult to get any action when I'm trying my best to keep it secret. So I value it when stuff happens. I'm not quite brave enough to go for it, though. Time and pretenses stop me.

Ron and Hermione and I had a fantastic morning, all fun, we talked to Hagrid, and for once Hermione wasn't spending tons of time at the library. I think Ginny helped on that part. So we were having fun, and I was glad, because it had seemed so long since we'd last just been able to be together and enjoy ourselves. But then I got that weird feeling and the next I know, Draco is there with us. I hate the feeling I get when I'm with my friends and with Draco. I know Hermione knows about us, so that makes me always have to force down the blush I get whenever I look at Draco and then at her. Also, I know Ron still doesn't know, so that makes me feel horrid, and guilty. Ginny, too. It's so awkward having all of them there, together with me, because it's like I'm forced to take sides, but I can't, truly.

Well, now I'm here, so they're not here to make me get that awkward feeling, but I'd love to feel that again if only all of them, or even just one, were here with me.

Also-------

Ink spilling everywhere, the quill dropped to lay on the paper, splattering the page, now cold and lifeless with the absent of a person's touch. The owner did not retrieve his belongings from where they lay.

-----*-----

Apparently, notepad--or should I say, dirty piece of parchment--Voldemort is here. He is surrounded by zombies, goblins, freaky four legged birds, unusual creatures of this dimension who specialize in the Dark Arts. I don't recognize what species half of them are, and as it is I can barely write this. The Death Eater who broke into the OtherWorld was actually Voldemort himself. No Death Eaters came with him, but he needn't worry, for half the creatures in this dimension serve him. I am in the OtherWorld.

The prospect is unnerving, but I haven't encountered Voldemort yet, so that is some comfort. And at least these creatures don't speak to me, not irritating me with their nasty comments like Death Eaters would.

I wish I hadn't left my wand in the common room...How daft.

-----*-----

Sick.

Sadistic.

That's what they all are. Sick. Sadistic. Sick. Sadistic. Sick. Sadistic. Sick. Sick. Sick. Sick...

Harry opened his eyes, allowing them to slowly adjust to the darkness around him. What a nightmare...ever since they'd captured him, every time he slept his mind had begun to siege him with contaminating, horrid images that made him nauseous and unable to even close his eyes anymore.

Lying, hungry, thirsty, lonely, and aching in his cold cell, all Harry could do was think. He wondered so many things...what was happening at Hogwarts...why he had been sucked into the OtherWorld...why life just couldn't leave him alone to enjoy lazily for once without having to worry about being murdered. And so, once thoughts of his friends, dear people to him, and sweet memories washed out, all he could think of was words to describe Voldemort and his followers...one word for every letter.

He started with A.

Atrocious...

B.

Barbaric...

C.

Condescending...

Despicable...

......Egg-headed...

...er ...Fastidious

Gross...

Horrid...

Iniquitous...

...Jumbled...

Kitsch...

Loveless...

Monotonous...

Nadir...

Obstinate...

Puny...

Quirky?...

Repulsive...

Sinister...

Terrible...

Ugly...

Vicious...

Wicked...

Xenophobic...

...Yucky...

Zany...

Chapter Seventeen

A Drop of Hope

Harry cried out in pain as he was shoved from behind, falling to the dungeon floor. Weakly, he rolled away as the spell hit the spot he'd just been in, and groaned in pain as the door clanked shut and laughter faded. Feeling deader than any door nail, he cradled his head in his arms, all feelings other than distress and pain washed from him. Tears glided down his cheeks, stinging his injured lips, those that fell further to graze his skin seeming able to hurt him even with their tiny weight. Almost unable to move, he remained in that position, willing the pain to ebb away, wondering how he could have underestimated the Cruciatus curse. Of course it would hurt, he'd known that. But he hadn't known why Voldemort hadn't simply killed him upon finding out that he wasn't the other Summoner.

He didn't know how much time had passed since he'd first gotten to the OtherWorld, but it was the most hellish experience he'd ever had. He'd actually wanted to die, was willing to give up everything and everyone he cherished if the pain would just stop. There was nothing good to think of that would give him hope. Eventually, the test had ended, and he had been allowed to sleep for a while. But when You-Know-Who heard of the test results, that he wasn't the Summoner, more pain had come, and now, imprisonment.

Harry didn't know what it was Voldemort waited for, why they kept him prisoner, if there was any way of escape and how he would survive. All he knew was that Voldemort's bite was definitely worse than his bark. And meanwhile, his scar burned constantly.

-----*-----

I wonder what Draco is doing right now...

Massaging his forehead, trying to force the headache away, Harry leant against the cell wall, ignoring the sting of the cold stone against his sore back. Unaware that he was softly mumbling to himself, he didn't notice what was happening until he heard a thump. Looking up, he immediately felt nauseous.

Across the hallway, in the cell directly in front of him, was a pile of corpses. Humans, house elves, centaurs, hippogriffs, all kinds of creatures imaginable seemed to be in the cell. Shutting his eyes tight, Harry pushed away the images that came to his mind, images of what it would be like if the pile of corpses contained people he knew and loved dearly. Coughing, he bent down and brought the bowl of water to his lips, but then, pulling back from it, he tossed the water--if it could even be called that--out of the bowl, watching it splatter across the hallway. He stood up, going to lean against the bars of his cell, his hands reaching out, as he squinted at the pile of corpses. Something was glowing...

Reaching out, Harry tried desperately to get a hold of the glowing object, but couldn't quite reach across the narrow hallway. Pretending to give up as a goblin walked by, he sat cross legged, only half a foot away from his cell door, waiting patiently for his chance.

-----*-----

Breathing quick, movements frantic, Harry quickly opened up the box that had been glowing, plugging his nose with one hand against the stench of many dead bodies. Opening the box, he pulled out another box, triangular shaped, small and thin as a makeup compact. Flipping it open, he sniffed the pale purple powder inside. Odorless. Not daring to taste it, and not sure if it would be so bad if it did harm him--after all, his situation was already bad--Harry took a pinch of the powder in his hand. Sighing, he said, "Well, here's goes, Tinkerbell powder...let's see if I can fly."

He was just about to sprinkle the powder on his head, when he realized that between his two fingers was, not a chunk of powder as he had thought, but something else. It seemed to be...a button?

A pull on his navel alerted him to the truth. Harry's eyes widened. A Portkey!