The corridor is dark, a single candle-flame lighting up the gloom. It is completely silent; the swish of robes the only sound that can be heard.

Draco Malfoy is the master of the flame; in his hand he carries a ghostly pale hand from which the light emerges. He comes to the end of the corridor and pushes open a small door, walking through the door and down the worn stone steps. He extinguishes the flame, and flicks the light switch, a harsh light flooding his eyes.

Three haunted faces look up at him; one old and weary, his eyes haunted and showing little sign of life. This one is close to death, he thinks; before he had joined the Death Eaters, this thought would have cheered him immensely. Now he just feels sick with guilt.

The other two prisoners are young, faces still bright with hope, but weighed with sorrow.

"Happy birthday, Draco!" calls the blonde, the only girl in this dusty dungeon. He tries to smile, but the tumultuous emotions of dread and guilt and a longing for it all to simply end prevents him.

He had struck up an odd kind of non-friendship with the girl; Luna. When Ollivander was being tortured (he barely stops himself from shuddering at the word) he would have to stand guard over Luna, listening to her wondering about her father and talking about a Crumple-Horned Something-or-other, what ever it was. He had told her it was his birthday, today; and the thought strikes him as humorous; he's seventeen now, and he's spending his birthday in a musty dungeon with an old man, a boy who is always silent, and a girl who is almost certifiably insane.

He gives a nod, flicks out the light and stalks from the dungeon. Once outside he leans against the wall and starts to laugh at the insanity of it all. This was his dream, to be a Death Eater; but reality does not live up to its promises. It's harsher, colder.

Happy birthday to me.

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