Fallen Dynasty (Dramione)

Sixteen - The Gang's All Here

Qui non nobiscum adversus nos est.

He who is not with us is against us.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

The air was electrifying and cold, deep down the dark tunnels that reeked of mold, mildew, and the undeniable stretch of death. It filled the senses of the few prisoners left after the revolt, the lingering despair nearly suffocating them. The only sounds in the pitch black darkness were the drops of ground water on the stone floor, puddling at their feet, and the distant anguished moans and screams of agony from the torture hall, even though they were now few and far between in that particular room.

Those were the two sounds that were most familiar to Voldemort's prisoners, day in and day out without fail, but those weren't the noises that frightened them the most.

The most frightening sound was the raw iron gate slamming open at the top of the stairs and heavy boots hitting the floor, making their way down slowly — predatorily slow — and indicating Reaper was heading their way.

They mostly cowered in the corner, the splashing through the inch of ground water — full of God knows what — collecting in their cells giving them away as they ran to hide. Their constantly soaked feet screamed in pain at their sudden movements, the skin normally peeling off as they hurried across the harsh stone.

No one lasted long in the cells. That was well known. If Reaper didn't kill you, infection would soon enough.

The definite sound of Reaper's gait filled the hall, the ever so slight drag of his right leg indicating the owner to each of their ears.

It was hardly obvious to most who had the pleasure of meeting him, the hobble of an unknown injury never noticed as they were too terrified to pay too close attention.

It was different to the prisoners who counted the seconds for a new sound to appear. The drag of his foot was earth shatteringly noticeable.

He normally could hide it, if he was trying hard enough. He could pick up his foot just an inch more and become a ghost, untraceable and undetectable.

Here, in the dungeons, he wanted his presence known.

It didn't fool them though. They didn't even categorize this as a weakness in their mind, just an indicator of impending doom.

They listened with baited breath as he came closer and closer to each of their cells before confusion over took most of them as he passed without even a glance in their direction. His ice blue eyes didn't stare into their soul, ripping through their memories and tearing them to shreds for the fun of it. He enjoyed that type of torture, the feeling of the mental anguish as he disintegrated fond memories while they writhed in agony, no way to stop him from doing what he wanted.

He didn't perform the killing curse or the Cruciatus or his own hemorrhaging spell. He strolled past like he was enjoying a walk through a meadow, bright eyes faced straight ahead. They couldn't see the sickening smirk twitching across his lips as he neared the last cell.

"Seriously, Nott?" The sound of his annoyance filled the hall as the latch unlocked. "Fucked Parkinson on Voldemort's throne after dinner? What a fucking idiot! You owe me for vouching for you."

Theodore Nott cackled as he jumped up from his cot, shoes splashing against the watery floor. "Totally fucking worth it."

"You're lucky your head is still attached to your body." Reaper shook his head, his deep timbre and rasp still striking fear into the hearts around him even though his attention was elsewhere.