Harry Potter: The Forgotten Chronicles- Book 7

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Evelyn's world was a relentless expanse of cold and darkness, her confinement within the dungeon an unending trial of endurance. The dungeon itself was a place of bleak, unfeeling stone. Its walls, ancient and crumbling, pressed in on her from all sides, their rough surfaces covered in a layer of mildew that seemed to seep into her very soul. The only hint of time was the weak, shifting light that filtered through the small, barred window set high up on the stone wall. This sliver of sky, perpetually cloaked in varying shades of grey, provided little comfort or hope, offering only a dismal reminder of the world beyond her prison.

Days blurred together in an endless cycle of weariness and hunger. Her uniform, once clean and neatly pressed, had become a filthy, ragged mess. Stains of dirt and grime had embedded themselves into the fabric, and the hem was tattered, barely holding together. She used her sweater as a makeshift pillow, though the coarse, soiled fabric did little to alleviate the discomfort of her situation. It was a meager attempt at solace in a place devoid of warmth or comfort.

Voldemort's orders were clear and cold: she was to remain alive, a living testament to his cruel dominance. She was a pawn in his twisted game, her suffering a calculated part of his plan. The emptiness of the dungeon mirrored the emptiness in her heart—a vast, cavernous space filled with unanswered questions and the sting of abandonment. The silence was oppressive, punctuated only by the occasional drip of water from the stone walls, each drop a reminder of the time slipping away.

Draco's absence was a constant, searing pain. He had not come to her, and his silence was a relentless torment. The longing for him was an ever-present ache, a cruel reminder of what once was and what could have been. Her mind replayed every moment of their time together, the sweet memories now tainted by the harsh reality of his betrayal. The dungeon was her physical prison, but the anguish of his absence was a deeper, more personal confinement—a cage of broken promises and shattered trust that felt more suffocating than the cold stone walls surrounding her.

In the solitude of her cell, Evelyn was left to grapple with her own fears and sorrows. The days melded into a monotonous cycle of pain and uncertainty, and the hope of rescue seemed like a distant, unattainable dream. Her heart was heavy with the weight of her circumstances, her thoughts consumed by the relentless questions of what might happen next and why she had been abandoned in such a cruel fate.

The heavy, iron door of Evelyn's dungeon groaned open with a menacing protest, its sound reverberating through the damp, oppressive silence. The figure that emerged was unmistakable—Peter Pettigrew, his wiry frame and pallid face framed by the stark light from the corridor. His beady eyes, glinting with malicious delight, settled on her with a predatory gleam.

Evelyn pushed herself up from the cold, damp stone floor with considerable effort, her limbs stiff and aching from the unyielding confinement. She set her jaw in a display of raw determination, her gaze fixed resolutely on the grimy wall to avoid meeting Pettigrew's gaze. She forced herself to stand tall, though the trembling of her legs betrayed her fear.

"Come to take another finger?" she asked, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her insides. The bravado was a thin veneer, barely concealing the dread that threatened to overwhelm her. Pettigrew's sneer widened, revealing a mouthful of yellowed, crooked teeth that seemed to embody his twisted nature.

"The Dark Lord wishes to see you," Pettigrew intoned, his voice dripping with a sickeningly cruel amusement that made Evelyn's stomach churn. The mention of Voldemort made her heart sink; the anticipation of meeting him was far more daunting than any of Pettigrew's torment.

Fear surged through her, making her legs tremble uncontrollably despite her best efforts to stay composed. Pettigrew extended his iron-clad hand towards her, its chill seeping through her skin as though it was made of ice. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his, allowing him to guide her from the dungeon and up the narrow, winding staircase.