So I did a tarot card version of my favorite fanfics in this year’s HP Fearfest !! (All of these are Drarry fics) and I enjoyed making every single one of these. Hopefully, I did the best of what I can in making it minimalist as much as possible (it was hard for me since this is not usually my style). I would like to thank the authors for giving me inspiration in making these tarot cards. Their works are the reason why I made the tarot themed work. Links are down below:
(NOTES: PLS LOOK AT THE TAGS FIRST)
1. The Willing Flesh by @corvuscrowned
2. Poisoned by @triggerlil
3. Silence on the 7th floor by @fw00shy
4. Slimy Yet Satisfying by @m0srael
5. Hands, Red. Hands, Red by @starlitsilvereyes
6. You Cup Will Never Empty by @starlitsilvereyes
For @hp-fearfest ’s prompt haunted house.
CW: slight spookiness and the attempted murder of a plant.
“Draco.”
Draco lifted his head from his reading,” Yeah?”
Harry must be home.
After no response he raised his voice,” Yeah, Harry?!”
Sighing, he set his book down and got up to go find him.
The entrance hall was empty and so was the kitchen.
“Harry?”
It was then that he noticed the clock. Harry wasn’t due home for another three hours. It was just him.
He must be hearing things.
An hour later it happened again.
“Hi.”
Draco again, looked up from his reading expecting to see Potter coming home and froze when he saw the time.
What was going on?
Deciding that he no longer wanted to sit in the living room he grabbed his book and climbed the stairs that led to their shared bedroom.
Hopping onto the bed he shook himself out of it. He was just tired. That had to be it.
He was sure if he got some sleep all of this would go away.
Draco awoke to Harry gently caressing his face,” Hey, sleepyhead.” He said with a bright smile.
“Hey.” He mumbled back, completely forgetting about his earlier worries.
“What happened to your plant?” Harry asked innocently.
“My plant?” Draco was now sitting up, his eyes darting to the windowsill that had held his aloe vera. His poor plant was now sprawled across the floor, dirt spilling out of the pot,” Oh no.”
He dumped as much of the soil back into the plastic container as possible and then carefully buried the exposed roots. He’d been taking care of it for months. He really liked that plant.
Of course, Harry teased him for it but it gave him something to do while he was alone.
Harry placed his hand on his shoulder,” I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Draco carefully placed it on the windowsill and pushed it as far back as it could go,” Yeah, maybe.”
Later that night Draco was lying awake in bed, tucked against the nook of Harry’s arm. It was warm and he was extremely sleepy.
“Draco.”
“Hmm?” he mumbled, shifting so he could look up at Harry.
He felt a shiver run up his spine when he saw that he was fast asleep.
For @hp-fearfest's day 9 prompt: Mad Scientist. CW: Mentions of arson and immolation, Mention of Fiendfyre.
(Read on Ao3 | 539 words | T)
“Shay. Shay!”
Seamus drags his dry eyelids over his rough, heated eyeballs and turns away from the fire to find Dean standing in the sitting room doorway, half dressed. He’s holding two different colored ties up to his throat, switching them back and forth.
“Sorry, what?”
“Which one goes best? I’m horrible at matching colors. Blue or red?”
“Erm—red. Looks nice on your skin, love.”
Dean flushes and rolls his eyes, but loops the red silk around his neck. “We need to go in five, we can’t be late!” he calls as he walks back down the hallway toward their bedroom.
Seamus kneels on the hearthrug and pulls a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket. He tosses it into the dying embers and watches as the edges curl in on themselves, falling to ash until there’s nothing left.
That’s one thing he loves about fire, out of many—the way it consumes and consumes, eating and swallowing until there’s nothing left. It purifies and cleanses, burning away imperfections and mistakes and reducing everything in its path down to its most elemental form.
He knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that magic is fire. Why else would spells erupt from a wizard’s wand in swirls of heat and light? Why else would his magical core burn inside of him, hot and roiling? Why else is Fiendfyre one of the most feared and respected curses in the magical world?
Magic is fire, and fire is magic. Pure, unadulterated magic.
He’s seen that magic at work so many times. He knows from his own experiments: to be kissed by fire is to be marked as sacred. To be consumed by flames is to be saved, wholly and completely.
He’s known it since before he could properly cast. His first burst of accidental magic set his mother’s prized roses on fire. They were dying, there was some disease they’d caught from another plant in their garden, and he only wanted to help. What could be more alive than fire? What could save each perfect, delicate petal more quickly than flames? He would burn out the disease and his mother would be so proud.
He had been wrong. She wasn’t proud, she was furious. He didn’t understand. But, then, the rosebush came back the next spring and it had three times as many blossoms and he knew. It was because of him, because of his fiery magic.
His theory had been tested and proven time and again, since.
First, leaves and twigs that popped and danced in the blue-white inner cone of a flame. Then, already-alive things that twitched and rejoiced, crying their gratitude for the chance to be so tenderly devoured. Each conflagration was a confirmation.
His explosive pyrotechnics even saved his friends during the Battle—sheltering them behind the smouldering ruins of stone and wood and metal, keeping them safe from the cold evil of Voldemort’s followers.
And then he’d witnessed Voldemort himself reduced to ashes by Harry Potter, the brightest and most blazing person he had ever met, whose magic warmed every single person around him.
Yes. He knows for sure that fire is a gift, to burn is to be loved.
read on ao3 | 100 words | written for @hp-fearfest‘s day 9 prompt: mad scientist. thanks to @cavendishbutterfly for, like, the most helpful beta ever.
Being alive the first time was bad enough. The second time around is absolute hell.
When Harry promised him forever, this isn’t what Draco had in mind. He hadn’t envisioned spending eternity with hasty stitching between his joints, bolts keeping his limbs from falling off. He hadn’t pictured Harry keeping him locked in the dark like a curious specimen.
It takes months for Harry to believe Draco can love, can forgive, can see the light of day.
The moment Draco is freed, he has a wand to Harry’s throat, a Kedavra at his lips.
written for @hp-fearfest day twenty seven: nightmares | T | No Warnings Apply | thank you to @starlitsilvereyes for the beta and the reassurance
It always seemed smaller in his dreams. When he could think rationally the forgone conclusion was that there was a pretty sizable difference between eleven and twenty one. Logically he knew it wasn’t real, he wasn’t really locked in. It didn’t matter. He would sit, knees pressed to his chest, and wait for the screaming and banging on the door to start. Most nights it was the familiar voices from his childhood, the insults so predictable he had them memorized. The worst nights were when he found himself begging his husband to be let out, promising he’d behave this time.
i wish we'd met before they convinced you life is war
I have...never really written horror before. I generally don't like horror as a genre, but I want to branch out, and my friends have done such incredible work for the @hp-fearfest that I wanted to give it a try.
Here's mine for one of the less, at least to me, scary prompts: "They've killed before, they'll kill again!" I'm also not entirely sure this counts as horror, at this point, because it's...not that creepy in retrospect. Still, I will be relying on a song from the Heathers musical, "Dead Girl Walking (Reprise)," but this isn't a Heathers AU.
Thank you so much to @corvuscrowned for the extremely helpful beta! CW: MCD, heavy angst, accidental murder, blood, kinda ominous ending.
"Put your wand on the ground and step away from the cabinet."
Harry watched as Malfoy froze, his hands gripping the wood; the other boy let out a low, deep chuckle as he drew his wand and turned around to face Harry.
"Oh hello, Potter. Come to see the show?"
Harry's jaw tightened, the hand holding his outstretched wand trembling slightly. "You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do."
"No, you don't!"
"You don't get it, do you?!" Malfoy spat. "If I don't do this, he will."
"We won't let him get that far."
"He already has!"
"How do you know that?"
Malfoy gestured around them. "I'm here, aren't I?"
Harry started toward him, but Malfoy aimed his wand at Harry's chest. Harry stopped, raising his hands placatingly. "It's not too late. You don't have to finish fixing it. We can destroy it—together. And then we can go to Professor Dumbledore."
"I won't trade one power-hungry narcissist for another!"
"At least Dumbledore isn't trying to commit genocide! Voldemort has killed and will kill again, and you know it."
"At least the Dark Lord won't kill my parents if I'm successful. I'm fairly certain your side doesn't care whether we live or die."
"I do. I care. Is that not enough?"
Malfoy's jaw twitched. "It can't be. Not anymore."
Something in Harry's chest twisted painfully. "I wish that we'd been friends sooner."
"Potter—"
"I wish you'd let me protect you and your mother. I wish you'd make the right choice, for once!"
"I wish you'd leave me the fuck alone!" Malfoy growled, forcefully casting a defensive spell, which Harry blocked.
They hurled hexes and jinxes and curses at one another, streams of magic flying around the room and singeing random objects in the cluttered Room. Finally, after dodging a particularly nasty spell, Harry snarled, "Sectumsempra!"
Malfoy immediately collapsed on the ground, blood seeping through his clothes. Harry watched in horror as Malfoy's chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. He ran over to Malfoy, kneeling next to him.
"Malfoy, I'm sorry, I never meant —let me—"
"No," Malfoy croaked, grimacing.
"What–what are you—no! Malfoy, I'm going to get help—"
"Don't."
"But—"
A hand wrapped around Harry's wrist. "Don't."
Harry gaped at him. "Malfoy, you could die!" His eyes welled with tears. "I won't kill you, I can't kill you, I never meant to—"
"Better..." Malfoy wheezed, his voice strained. "Better you than him."
"What—Malfoy, I’m going to get someone, you probably don’t have much time, just—”
"Harry, shh. Wait. Promise me."
Harry froze. "What?"
"Promise you'll kill him."
Harry breathed in sharply. "I'll try."
He moved to get up, but Malfoy's hand gently covered the back of Harry's hand, nimble fingers touching the words carved into his skin. "Promise me, Harry," he whispered so softly Harry could hardly hear him.
"I will," Harry's voice cracked.
Malfoy closed his eyes. Finally, his chest rose in a deep breath. He exhaled, his lips forming the word "Hi," just before his body stilled.
"No!" Harry cried, shaking him. "No, you're not dead, Malfoy — Draco, come back! Draco." Harry let himself fall over the limp, bloody body, sobbing into his own arms.
After it felt like hours had passed and every tear had been drained from his eyes, Harry stood, cleaning the smeared blood from his skin and clothes. He knew he should call for help, but for the moment he felt himself walk to the cabinet, running his fingers along the smooth wood.
Before, the idea of facing Voldemort head-on, once and for all, seemed like something abstract, yet inevitable. He'd known on some level since fourth year that it would come to this, but with all the sleepless nights and odd meetings with Dumbledore and finding out about the prophecy last year, it was becoming increasingly clear that only he or Voldemort would come out of the war alive. Before, the idea of taking a life, of killing someone, was so abhorrent and unthinkable that Harry had never let himself come to terms with the possibility.
But with Draco's lifeless, bloodied body crumpled on the floor, Harry knew he had no choice.
Draco overheard his Mother calling him a difficult child sometimes. Not to his face, but to her friends, the Mothers of children that were supposed to be his friends but weren’t. He was six the first time, playing hide behind a rosemary bush. Draco remembers the sharp sting of betrayal the first time brought.
By the second, it was a dull ache and he was seven.
By the third, Mother’s eyes were wet, Draco was eight and three quarters, and there were pieces of a shattered vase scattered between them.
By the fourth, Draco was at his ninth birthday party, and Mother seemed numb to him. It was said like more of an afterthought.
Nine was a bad birthday. It was early June, and the sun should have been shining, but instead the heavens opened and all of his parents' friends and the children that weren’t his friends had to stay inside the Manor.
Draco didn’t like strangers in the Manor. Neither did Tom.
Outside, Tom and him could sneak away by themselves, hide while the others played, and go unnoticed. Inside, Draco could feel Father’s eyes following him, like a hawk following a squirrel, waiting for Draco to misstep so he could dig his claws in.
Draco managed to find a spot on a landing where he could overlook the crowded hallway, peer through the balusters and be hidden by them.
There must have been nearly fifty people at that party. Draco kept losing track of them when counting, so he couldn’t be quite certain.
“It’s a farce, anyway.” Tom said to him, his hands on the railing, knowing he wouldn’t be spotted. He never was.
“A fast?” Draco questioned. Tom used big words sometimes, and it made him sound so much older than he looked. Draco thought he might be ancient.
“A farce . It means that it’s just a charade, Draco. You don’t like these people, and they don’t like you. Yet here they all are, supposedly celebrating your birthday, but they haven’t noticed the absence of the birthday boy.”
Draco nodded in agreement and worried his bottom lip with his teeth. Tom was always right, but it didn’t make him feel better.
“I don’t like these people.” Draco repeated. He saw Tom nod.
“Exactly. And they don’t like you, do they?”
Draco shrugged. “I don’t care. You like me.”
Tom smiled and showed off razor-sharp teeth. “I wouldn’t be able to live without you, Draco.”
Draco felt the air around him move and felt a heavy warmth next to him. He leaned his head on Tom’s side, not tall enough to reach his shoulder. Tom wrapped an arm around his neck.
“I don’t remember ever living without you. Will you be here forever?”
Tom was watching the party below through the gaps, and the light from the ballroom danced madly on his grey face.
“Of course.” Tom whispered.
Draco spent the rest of his party watching the other children play with an ache in his chest. Mother found both of them when the last of the stragglers had left, but she looked through Tom.
They always did. But not Draco. He was special.
*
Draco could not truly remember a time without Tom. By the time he turned seven, imagining a world without Tom was like imagining a black sky with no moon to light it, a sea without waves to pull you in, a shark without teeth to consume you.
He knows that there was a time before Tom existed in Draco’s life. However Draco was very little, and when he thinks about it, even really hard, Tom is creeping at the corner of his vision in every memory he can recall.
Tom told him that it was the diary he found under a broken floorboard in the attic over the west wing, when he was exploring where he wasn’t meant to. Draco does remember finding the diary, it was wedged under a snapped piece of wood, but not like it had been forgotten, like it had been hidden. Like Tom was waiting to be found. But even in that memory, Tom’s steady voice is whispering in the back of his head, telling him to take take take.
*
“You’ll be going to Hogwarts soon.” Tom tells him when he’s a week away from ten. There will be no party this year. Draco cannot help the relief he felt upon being told he was too much of a disgrace.
“I dunno.” Draco says as he sucks chocolate from his fingers. Dobby can never say no to him. Literally. “Father said I won’t if I don’t sort myself out. He says I can’t risk embarrassing the Malfoys. They might… Father said I have to see a lady. He said she’s going to sort my head out. But I - I,”
Draco swallows heavily, and wraps his arms around his middle, a poor imitation of a hug. Twigs snap and leaves crackle under his shoes. The woods on the Manor grounds are Draco’s favourite place to go. He and Tom can disappear together and Father won’t come out that far to look for him. At most he’ll send Dobby, but the house elf is so stupid that he never stands a chance of finding them.
Tom grabs his arm suddenly and spins him around so fast Draco gets dizzy. It’s a second before Draco can focus on his face. When he does Draco sees that Tom is bursting with a rage that came from nowhere, his face twitching horribly.
Draco tries to take a step back. Tom’s fingers lock around his arm like manacles. Draco hates it when Tom gets like this.
“You’ll be going to Hogwarts soon.” Tom tells him again, as if Draco hadn’t heard it the first time. Draco opens his mouth and then closes it. This far away, Draco can’t run. He can never run from Tom.
“I-I want to go, Tom! I do! But Father said -”
“Damn with what your pathetic father said, Draco! Have you no dignity? Do I mean nothing to you? You’re going to let this woman try to banish me, to hurt me? What does your father think I am, is he really so thick-headed?!” Tom hisses out the last part like a snake, and a phantom glob of spittle hits Draco’s cheek. Draco doesn’t think the last part was a question he was meant to answer.
“Tom, you’re hurting me, please.” Draco cries, squeezing his eyes shut at the ferocity in his expression.
The pressure on his arm vanishes, but Draco still can feel the hurt under the skin. Tom shakes him lightly, and Draco cracks his eyes open.
Tom doesn’t look regretful, but the rage has been pushed back from the forefront, and now he bends down so they are at eye level. Tom’s eyes are grass-green. His breath smells of something rotten.
“You’ll be going to Hogwarts soon, Draco.” He repeats for the third time, this time calmly, as if commenting on the grey skies above.
Draco nods.
“No matter what your father does, you want to go. So I’ll get you there. It’s important for me too, that you go. A proper Slytherin you’ll make.”
“I want to go.” Draco says, though he’s not sure. He likes the quiet of the Manor when it’s near empty, and hates the way strangers look at him as if he’s diseased. “But everyone thinks I’m mad. I think Mother wants to tutor me.”
Tom sighs, and pulls Draco to him. It’s not exactly a hug, but it’s as close as they get. Tom standing stiff and patting his back as if he’s just going through the motions, Draco standing still and wanting to suck up Tom’s warmth.
“I’ll get you to Hogwarts.” Tom makes it sound like a promise. Draco feels a little better.
Tom takes his hand, and together they run deeper into the woods until Tom finds a dead rook laying between trees. He gives it to Draco, a present, and Draco holds it close until the sky turns blacker than the dark.
*
Tom likes to give him presents, but not in the way anyone else does. Tom’s presents come from the gardens or from the dark places of the Manor. Sometimes Tom brings him a dead silky moth or patterned wings torn from a butterfly, or fox bones or bird beaks, or snake skin or frog eyes. Draco stashes them under his bed, never leaving them in the open for his parents to see.
The things Tom gives him make Mother upset and Father angry, but Draco cherishes them, and sometimes crawls into the small space under his bedframe just to stroke the wings or touch the smooth bones.
*
Draco asked him once, years and years ago when he was five, where he came from and why he couldn’t leave Draco, and how a book brought him to life but only for him. Tom just put a finger to his and shushed him, and so he didn’t ask again.
Draco asks Tom for the second time in his life on the night before he’s meant to be leaving for Hogwarts. The question is hushed by the thumb between his teeth and the nervousness of his voice.
“I came from an orphanage, Draco.” Tom confesses, and Draco rolls over to face him. Draco had always imagined Tom as a King of a powerful nation or a politician, or a Minister of Magic but one that doesn’t let other people decide on laws.
“Oh.” He whispers. “How old are you, Tom?”
In the darkness of his bedroom, Draco thinks he can make out Tom smiling, but it could be a snarl. “Older than I look. Far older and wiser than you.”
Draco gulps, and asks the question he has never wanted to ask. It’s easier that he can’t make out Tom’s face properly.
“Can you die? Will you die before me, if you’re that old?”
Draco feels Tom sit up in the blackness, feels him looming over him. “I won’t ever die, Draco. Not truly. I am the world’s most powerful sorcerer. Some people may think that they could vanquish me, but some part of me would always remain, ready to grow again and again. I am a poppy on a battlefield.” Tom’s voice is a hushed whisper, but the power in it makes Draco tremble.
Draco doesn't truly understand what Tom means, only that he won’t ever leave him. He opens his mouth, but the door swings open.
Father stands in the doorway, the light from his wand flooding the room. Father is frowning. Father is usually displeased when Draco is involved.
Father didn’t knock. He never knocks.
“Who are you talking to?”
Draco glances at Tom, who’s glaring at Father. Tom greatly dislikes Father. Draco doesn’t completely understand why, but he thinks that maybe in another life Tom and Father knew each other. Tom says that Father is a coward. Draco thinks that Father can be scarier than ghosts sometimes.
Draco shrugs, bunching his covers up by his chin. “No-one.”
Tom moves closer to him, and licks a stripe from his collarbone to his ear. Draco shivers. Tom likes making him do funny things in front of Father, likes to make Draco goad him into shouting, even if Draco gets in trouble after.
Father’s eyes flicker to the spot on his bed where Tom rests, and for a moment his frown deepens, and his fingers go white around his wand, and Draco thinks that maybe, just for a second, he saw a shadow next to him.
However Father just shakes his head at him and leaves, taking the light with him.
Draco rubs at the wet with his sleeve. Tom laughs. Draco rolls over, determined to ignore him for the rest of the night so he can be well rested for the train, but Tom taps his shoulder. Draco doesn’t turn but he inclines his head slightly.
“I have a task for you, Draco.” His voice is back to the hushed whisper, and Draco shivers.
“I’m tired, Tom.”
“You must get close to Harry Potter.”
Draco fingers the diary under his pillow, and wonders what would happen if he threw it into a fireplace.
“Harry Potter won’t want to be friends with me. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”
Tom sneaks a cold hand up Draco’s pyjama shirt and pinches his side. Draco jumps, and grabs his hand. There will be another bruise when the sun rises.
“I will guide your hand, Draco. Just follow my orders, and all will be well.”
Draco nods tiredly. I already follow your orders, he thinks as he drifts away to sleep.
*
Tom’s hands are heavy on his shoulders as they guide him through the crowded train. Some of the younger students move out of his way, aware of the reputation Draco has garnered for being off the rails mad. Draco has managed to only nod or slowly shake his head when Tom speaks; he hasn’t yet been caught talking to Tom, and Tom said it’s best Draco and him don’t speak in front of Harry Potter.
Draco is a little excited at the prospect of meeting Harry Potter. Of course, Voldemort was right in wanting to rid the world of mudbloods, but the immense power his core must hold, to defeat such a powerful wizard as a baby. Tom warned him not to expect much, though.
Draco is glad for Tom’s warning when he’s pushed into Potter’s compartment. Draco isn’t sure what he was expecting, but a skinny, small boy dressed in clothes that were too big and looked like hand-me-downs wasn’t what he had in mind.
Potter looks at him curiously, but not resentfully, and Draco knows then that Potter doesn’t know a thing about him.
Draco sticks out his hand, and then falters. His mouth opens and closes like a koi fish.
Father always taught Draco to introduce himself with his last name first, so the other wizard would always know he came from a powerful family, but given what people know about him, he thinks that maybe it isn’t the best course of action.
Tom’s fingers are like claws when they dig into his shoulders. His breathing down Draco’s neck feels like a dragon.
“I’m Draco,” He says pathetically, unsure of how other children introduce themselves. Potter nods, and smiles slightly. He doesn’t move to shake Draco’s hand, so he drops it awkwardly.
“I’m Harry. Harry Potter.”
“I know,”
Potter’s smile dims a little.
Draco glances at the window and in the reflection sees Tom glaring at Potter. His sharp fingers travel up from his shoulders to squeeze his neck lightly. Draco knows it’s a warning.
“Can I sit here? I don’t… know anyone.” Draco lies. He knows at least half the children on this train.
“Of course you can,”
Draco struggles when Tom squeezes tighter. “Want to be friends?” His voice is higher than it should be. Potter cocks his head, like a dog checking him out, and then to Draco’s relief, nods happily.
“Sure,”
He sticks out his hand like Draco had before, and Draco takes it with little hesitancy. Tom pats his knee, and he digs his nails into the back of Potter’s hands. They won’t really be friends, Tom only wants to get close to him, Draco reminds himself.
“I don’t really know much about Hogwarts though, I only found out I was a wizard in July.”
Draco tries to gape at him, but his face is stuck. He can’t quite move his muscles. He feels himself squeeze Potter’s hand.
“Don’t worry, Harry.” The voice that flows from his lips is far more commanding and grown up than his. Draco tries to shout but he can’t make anything move. Tom’s voice echoes throughout his head.
“ I can help you there.”
Harry smiles. Draco smiles back like one of Mother’s porcelain dolls, Tom’s nails like claws sinking through his skin.
@hp-fearfest Day 1 Prompt: Haunted House! I was so excited to see a scary prompt challenge for October and can’t wait to post everything I have so far. Enjoy! - Hannah
----------------------------
The wallpaper could talk, Draco reasoned. The textured paper ran under his finger trips as he paced the room. The rooms would whisper to him as he passed through.
The kitchen would hum cheerful tunes that matched the cheerful yellow walls. The deep green library murmured in low tones when he would sit by the fireplace with a glass of scotch. His mother’s sitting room housed light laughter that sounded like bells. But the deeper into the heart of the manor he went, the louder it got.
The dining room had hushed conversations dancing around the baseboards. Dark hallways had fights that were punctuated with hard tones. And the dungeons… the dungeons screamed.
Draco would not dare go down to the dungeons. He preferred to stay above ground, even before the war. His father had warned him when he was little that the dungeons were haunted, which was absurd to be scared of because ghosts and poltergeists gathered in the attic sometimes. However the dungeons were always off limits.
He had wandered down once, two summers before he went off to Hogwarts. Draco was shaking as he left the safety of the hallway. The door creaked as he softly pushed it open, and then he was struck by it. There was no noise. Draco had never heard a silent room until that moment. His little hand shook as he placed it against the uneven stone wall. Draco had descended into the dark, silent stairs. Old wizarding houses, like Malfoy Manor, had life in every room. It was the basis of strong family homes.
This room had no life.
Once Draco had made it to the bottom of the stairs, he stopped. It was so dark that he could not see his own pale hand in front of him. The air was stagnant and smelt terribly. Just as he had decided that he had enough, there was noise. Draco could not move. He stood there, paralyzed with fear as a small noise came from somewhere in the darkness.
“Help.” The noise turned into. “Help me.”
His father had found him clawing his way back up the staircase, screaming so loudly that he was hoarse for days. That was the last time that Draco had ever dared go near the dungeon again.
But today, Draco stood outside the door and listened to the screams. It was a voice he had known, and even hated at one point. Harry’s agonizing screams plagued the air. The Dark Lord’s laugh rang through clearly
Maybe the dungeons were haunted by ghosts. Maybe they were haunted by the living.
