He was reminded of his promise by the dirty-blonde hair of Emilia Moon. He was reminded of his promise by the silver in the eyes of his classmate, Draco Malfoy. He was reminded of his promise by the damp chill that lingered in the dungeons. He was reminded of his promise by the nightmares that came each night, without fail. He was reminded of his promise by the dying pleads of outstretched hands in his mind. He was reminded of his promise by the petite, elegant hands of Diana Carefield. He was reminded of his promise by the sneers and wary glances. He was reminded of his promise by the scar etched into his ex-brother's forehead.
He could never forget his promise to her. To them.
That he would go back. That he would get them out. And he would do so, with the Dark Lord at his side.
He remembered when Elladora Lestrange had been dragged in, kicking and cursing, by the only human visitors- if they could even be deemed human enough to acquire the status. She had been thrown into his cell- her high cheekbones scraping against the harsh grey slabs. And she had looked at him with those eyes that were a perfect blend of her parents', in a silent defiance, yet plea, of her begging for someone to hear her screams.
His forehead pressed against the cold pains, as his memories slipped to the surface.
It was another storm.
The bleak grey waves crashed to an unknown symphony against the bleak grey shore of the bleak grey prison. They slammed against the walls occasionally, in time to the thunderous rain and the clapping of lightning that could not even light the sky properly; the bleak grey even destroying that little change. The only colour to break it up, was the colour of the inmates themselves- though they were all fading; their colours slowly dimming, until they too would join the bleak grey that all consumed.
He was alone in his cell. Beside him was Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange. Across from him was Bellatrix Lestrange and Barty Crouch Jr. To the other side of him was Fenrir Greyback, who sat alone in his silver cage. They were tucked away in one of the darkest corners of the prison- to be forgotten as the darkest of the criminals there. The most dangerous. They often talked away their days; the parts of their days that was not spent in cries as the Dementors passed over them, or the part spent in exhaustion- eyes closed and breaths uneven.
Shouts and pleas broke out further down the corridor- past what they could see. They were a girl's- not a woman's- but a girl's and he couldn't help but wonder if another child had been condemned for their silence. For their innocence.
The prison's only visitors came in their blood red robes; the two each grasping a different part of the girl, as she wriggled and writhed and kicked and scratched. She was young. Tiny. Smaller than him, and younger than him. Yet her eyes were age old in their dead, silvery depths. Dirty-blonde hair was uncombed and caught in the breeze and actions of her desperate attempts to escape. None of them cared to assess the other visitors. They were just blurs in the memories they would be left with.
The grated door unlocked with a clink, and swung open with an angry swoosh. The girl was thrown in violently, scraping against the harsh stone with a sharp sob. She didn't have time to try and escape, before the door was locked, and the visitors were leaving.
For a while they merely looked at each other; one dully curious, and the other wide-eyed and resigned in suspicion.
"Harry Potter," he offered. His voice was rasp- they never were given enough water.
"Elladora Lestrange."
Her voice was quiet, but told the stories of a thousand rivers lost in melody to the shrieks of songbirds as they met their bitter ends, and fell in swirling red to the waters below.
There was no silence that followed her name; Rodolphus and Bellatrix were immediately pressed against their bars- straining to gain a closer look. Rabastan had snapped to attention, out of the depression that had overwhelmed him for three days already, and curled closer. Both Barty and Fenrir merely looked up and eyed her- waiting for the revelation of a closing curtain.
Eyelids closed over burning eyes, as a deep breath sought to calm him.
No. He would not forget his promise. And no. He would not fail in it. He would get them out. Even if it was the last thing he would ever do.
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