Raised as an orphan, Nel Saintday, endured years of torture from the Slytherin House. The Dark Lord only allowed her existence for her to serve a very specific vile purpose for him. Her birthright dictates for her to choose a side in the Wizarding W...
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The authentic Alastor Moody watched in his night robes. He sat on the floor at the edge of the inside of the wooden chest. The man sat with his arms crossed over his chest. The only thing probably worse than being unwillingly locked inside of a trunk was being locked inside of a trunk with a teenager.
An angry one at that.
He then watched the student run against the wall with a rageful scream and tackle it down with her shoulder. She slid down the wall painfully heaving before rising, stumbling back, and trying again. He guessed her shoulder was probably wounded by now, if not a couple of strikes away from being dislocated.
"Give it up, kid," He called from his corner. "It's useless. The only way out is in," He said pessimistically.
"I'm not giving up!" She grunted with pain. "I'm not giving up. I'm getting out of here-" She heaved furiously, looking up at the unending darkness above the two. "There has to be another way out..." She said more to herself.
"Who-" Her dark eyes moved from a nonexistent exit back to the Auror's. "Who was that? If you're Moody then, who-?" she was frustrated at her loss of words.
"Barty Crouch Jr.," Alastor sat up and uncrossed his arms. He would've walked if he could, but Crouch had his leg. "Most unpleasant slimeball. Scum of the scum that walks this Earth. Death Eater and loyal to You-Know-Who until the end. Caught me slippin' in my retirement," Moody finished his sentence by cursing words Nel hadn't even heard before. The trunk was pitch black. She couldn't see just how filthy the man was with unkempt hair and a growing beard from being locked in here so long.
He also couldn't distinguish the features of the Slytherin.
If he could've been immediately able to distinguish just who he was in the room with.
"And what do they want with you?" He asked gruffly.
"The hell should I know. I'm just an orphan."
If he could've seen the constellation in her face in the shape of Ophiuchus, he would've immediately known just who was locked inside of the trunk with him.
Harry Potter sat in the office of Professor Alastor Moody, crying. He was alone processing the events of the Third Task of the Tournament.
Cedric was dead.
Voldemort was back.
Nel was missing.
Probably dead too.
He had seen Cedric's life flash before his eyes. The Dark Lord had touched him. Cursed his blood to be shared between the two. Everything had gone to hell. He pinched the bridge of his nose and remove his glasses to wipe his tears from his swollen eyes.
His head jolted up when Moody's door slammed behind him as he entered the room. Startled, he looked at the Professor.
In the same room, inside of the chest, the missing student attentively listened to the conversation that Harry and Barty Crouch Jr. were having. It sounded muffled and distant. Words were inaudible beyond recognition, but the voices were clear.
