FAILSAFE

Chapter Nine

Draco's steps echoed softly in the corridor as he ventured deeper; his senses heightened in anticipation of the mysteries that lay ahead. The stone walls exuded an ancient presence, bearing witness to the passage of time. Carvings adorned the archways, intricate patterns intertwining to depict tales of forgotten legends. The flickering torches cast dancing shadows that come alive, swirling and whispering their secrets in the air.

The stranger's movements remained as ethereal as before, gliding across the stone floor without a hint of sound. Each step he took defied the laws of nature. It was as if he was an extension of the building itself, a spectre melding seamlessly with the ancient walls.

Draco's attention shifted to Harry, his heart aching at the sight of his companion's distant gaze.

The stranger's voice, melodic and haunting, resonated through the corridor as he hissed words in a language that brushed against Draco's ears like the whispers of forgotten times. The phrases held an ancient power, their meaning lost to Draco's understanding. Yet, the mere cadence of the unfamiliar tone carried an undeniable weight, hinting at hidden knowledge and old magics. It was as if he spoke to the walls themselves, the flames flickering, sending the shadows slithering until they ceased to exist.

The darkness followed them like a deep fog, nipping at their heels as they went further into the mausoleum. The haze seemed to envelop Harry as he retreated further into himself, murmuring words different from the man in front of them.

The air in the room was heavy; the weight on Draco's chest intensified the further they ventured into the hall. It was as if the very atmosphere was conspiring against them, trying to suffocate their resolve. He exchanged a tense glance with the man leading them as the stranger slowed his pace. Draco couldn't shake off the feeling that they were no longer alone in this place. Whispers drifted through the fog, distant and indistinct, like echoes of forgotten conversations. Shadows danced at the periphery of his vision, playing tricks on his mind and making the darkness feel even more alive.

The silence of the room shattered as Harry's screams filled the air, causing his neck to twitch as he frantically covered his ears. Draco's body moved instinctively over and grasped his shoulders, attempting to soothe him as the laughter of the unknown man reverberated in the chamber.

"Harry, look at me. None of it is real," Draco whispered urgently. The horrors they had witnessed couldn't possibly be real. Death had permeated everything, clinging to them and weighing on their souls. "It's not real," Draco repeated quietly, as if trying to convince himself. He repeated it over and over again, like a mantra. "It's not real. It's not real. It's not real."

"Darkness... always there... lurking... in the shadows... it's me... and not me... the boy who lived... and died... over and over... choices... mistakes... scarred and torn... lost in a sea of voices... centaurs whispering secrets... footsteps on parchment... Padfoot, Prongs, Moony, Wormtail... Quidditch in the rain, so fast, the snitch... it's all gold... Mum's eyes, they're green, just like... Darkness... can't see... always running... voices in my head... Cedric, the Triwizard cup... 'Avada' — echoes off stone angels... Voldemort... Dumbledore... green eyes, Snape's glare, potions simmering... always... always dark... blood... Hogwarts... the mirror... always alone...".

Harry's sudden shove caught Draco off guard, his grip slipping away as Harry moved backwards into the encroaching fog. It was a chilling sight, how the mist seemed to recoil from Harry's unhinged mutterings, as though some unseen force was at play. Desperation and fear emanated from his rival's every twitch; his demeanour was that of a man possessed by something beyond their comprehension.

Against the stone, Harry slumped, his body wracked with sporadic convulsions. Draco's heart raced as he struggled to make sense of the scene before him. He reached out, an instinctual impulse to help, but the fog acted as a barrier, an insurmountable wall that his hands couldn't penetrate. As his sleeve brushed against the mist, it erupted with a black flame that flickered and then vanished, leaving a singe mark on his tattered shirt.