On Hollow Ground

Chapter 2

I was yanked from a dreamless sleep into a nightmare. My throbbing head sent stabbing pains through my consciousness with each pulse. The hazy, blended colours of my surroundings swirled before my eyes as I blinked, trying to make sense of my surroundings without my glasses. The unfamiliar grey walls and ghostly silhouettes flitting through my vision left me disoriented and unable to grasp my location or the situation. I felt groggy and incapacitated, as if drugged by some potion that had weakened me.

A chill swept across my skin, leaving me to wonder if the air had truly grown cold or if my senses were playing tricks on me. The faint, musty aroma of damp stone and aged parchment filled my nostrils, triggering memories that ran deeper than my present bewilderment. Where exactly was I?

Disjointed voices surrounded me, their words blending into an indecipherable din. Hands—numerous hands—gripped my arm with crushing force. I whimpered and struggled to break free, but their unyielding hold kept me trapped, like iron shackles binding me to a nightmare. Summoning my resolve, I tried again to escape, only for them to tighten their grip even further. The agonised cry that tore from my throat echoed harshly through the oppressive silence.

As the world around me began to unravel, flashes of memory surged. Laughter shifted into something darker, with taunting voices echoing through the night. These morphed into images of a looming, shadowy figure. Voldemort's pale, merciless face surged in my mind, filling me with dread. Panic gripped me, and I struggled against the force holding me down.

"Ready... Dark Mark," someone muttered, a voice low and sinister. "Call him."

Call who? A sense of dread overwhelmed me as my muddled mind fought against the confusion. My heart raced as I struggled against the crushing grip that only tightened.

Searing agony erupted from my scar, a blinding wave of raw, excruciating pain that tore a scream from my throat, my voice lost in the grip of anguish. Desperate, I strained against those restraining me, but to no avail as my senses were overwhelmed by the chaos and torment, each frantic heartbeat echoing my terror.

"He's ready... lord... ready... receive... Mark," the voice continued, filled with an excitement that curled my stomach into knots.

Dark Mark? Who was ready to receive it? Panic consumed me again. In my disoriented state, I couldn't register the situation. They weren't trying to brand me, were they? I desperately grappled for clarity amidst the fog permeating my mind. The faces surrounding me wavered in and out of focus like a painting cloaked in mist.

A chilling voice commanded, "Bring... potion... witness... occasion... must not miss..."

Potion? A heavy unease had settled in my chest, impossible to shake. Shadows flickered against the stone walls, malformed shapes dancing unsettlingly. The air throbbed with tension. I glanced around, noting the whispered conversations and furtive glances thrown my way. It felt like I was being watched, excluded from some hidden plot.

Hands suddenly pried open my mouth, catching me off guard. A sweet, sickening liquid rushed in, causing me to choke as I desperately tried to push it back. My palms clawed at the air, fighting against their iron grip, but to no avail. Panic gripped my chest, constricting my breath.

Suddenly, a shift occurred. A fog obscured my thoughts, then gradually cleared, sharpening my senses with startling vividness. Every faint rustle and whisper now rang out clearly. The crackling fire and scent of stone walls assaulted my heightened perceptions.

Yet when I blinked and strained to focus, my vision remained blurred, distorted like reflections in broken glass. Instinctively, I tried to rise from where I lay, but an unseen force held me down, undeniably binding me in place. Then, a towering, ominous shadow emerged.