Disclaimer: Don't own HP obviously.

Warnings: There is some violence though it is more the effect than the actual event.

This is short, I realise. Just a flurry of words that kept fluttering around my head until I put them onto paper.

The End.

Blood shimmers on his skin like a thick syrup and slides down to pool on the floor beneath. His breathing is harsh, uneven and raw. The air in the room tastes of stale air and stale walls. And this is where he would die.

"I'm frightened," he whispers into the dark, mildly aware of the other human there to hear his testimony.

The pain was lessening, numbing. Now nothing but the unusual sensation of blood leaking out of a wound without the pain. It was surreal, like an image on a screen.

His memory is fading; he can't remember how he got here. If he ever really did. Reality doesn't exist anymore, he's not sure if he does.

Colours flash and fade in front of his eyes and illuminate the room, it's dingy and dark brown. It's damp and the furniture is rotting away through years of neglect. The door firm and heavy is drowning under chains and locks, no one is meant to escape from this but there is one seat occupied.

A man cloaked entirely in black. He's neither young or old but he's refined and dignified. The mahogany stick he clutches shines irregularly in the sparse light and his eyes glitter similarly.

He wants to ask the man for help, beg but through the haze of the slipping world, he knows it's pointless.

This wasn't how it was supposed to end, he was meant to be the saviour. Harry James Potter was destined to cure the world of this infection, he was not meant to lie rotting and bleeding on this floor. The name Harry is beginning to disperse into single letters in his mind, they glow various different colours until their ferociousness stings his eyes.

Suddenly, he wants water. A gulp of cool, crisp liquid that would run down his throat and make him feel human again as his humanity trickles out of him. His instincts to cry, to scream are flooding his brain and the dyke is faltering…

He whimpers. All he could summon.

The man laughs but its hoarse, evidently he does not laugh very often. As his ability to think clearly, or think at all, is rapidly disappearing, it does not strike him as at all odd that this mysterious man would only exert himself in laughter for his pain.

He touches the crimson puddle at his feet and dances his fingers through it slowly; he's much too tired to do any strenuous movements.

Then even a slight twitch of his fingers exhausts him and he must lie down.

Curled up like a baby animal, he cherishes the small flashes of light and loves the rotting floor beneath him. He savours the warmth of the liquid below him and constant pound in his brain…

But then even being grateful becomes too difficult and then even doing nothing, even thinking, is painful…

Sparks of electricity hit him second after second and stop.

Loud shrieks are cried into his ears and stop.

The loud thump of his heart slows...

And stops.

Silence.

Standing up, the other man applauds loudly. This one was simply delightful, incredibly fascinating…

He bends down and takes the tip of his finger, skates it across the puddle of blood and dabs it to his tongue.

Odd. It had never tasted like that before. He could feel the buzz of magic laced through the liquid.

He locked the door of the room from the outside and marched down the corridor, his confident step echoing along the walls.

"Kreacher?"

"Yes Master Snape?"

"Clean up the mess in time for tomorrow evening, I wonder if Weasley will managed to be as delightful as Potter."

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