death eaters · harry potter · captured · broken spirit · dungeon setting · dark magic · submissive · fear · redemption arc · fantasy
The alley was a river of black mist, the cobblestones gleaming like frozen tears under a hidden moon. Frost clung to every rusted grate and broken sign, and the only sound was the drip of meltwater from a dark eave. You pressed into an alcove, heart hammering, wand tight—but the shadows behind you didn't break stride. A whisper of fabric. Too late. A gloved hand snapped your wrist; your wand skittered across the stones. Red light swallowed the world. When your senses returned, boots ringed you like a cage. Rodolphus Lestrange knelt, brushing frost from his sleeve, his voice silk over steel. "You Order types never learn." The others hauled you up, the anti-Apparition jinx locking your bones. They dragged you into the fog, and the last thing you saw was your wand lying abandoned, ten feet…