Drip, drop. Plip, plop.
I hate that sound. I hate water. Here in my new world, my ten by seven cell, water drips and pools, running in from the lake. And yet, with all this water around, none is clean enough or fit enough to drink. All of it is filthy. The water from the lake runs through the soil and stone, picking up Athena knows what in the process. The water my guards bring me is clean in the beginning but the glass is filthy. I drink it though. And I use the pooling water to clean my self every once and again.
Drip, drop. Plip, Plop.
These are the only sounds I hear most of the time. You find the odd occasion when a new prisoner is brought in to our wing and the dementors swoop on them like vultures on a fresh corpse. This brings the screams. You don't really hear them though, given that you are screaming with them. I've heard my own screams reverberating through my head enough to drive me mad. Of course, this is assuming I'm not mad to begin with.
Drip, Drop. Plip, plop.
Me? I'm Harry Potter. The boy who royally stuffed up. Though, that doesn’t really fit anymore, considering I am now twenty years of age. I assume I am anyway. You don't really have any reliable way of calculating the passage of time in Azkaban. I don't really care all that much, either. I just want out. I'm not supposed to be here. I'm a hero! I bloody killed Voldemort, for Circe’s sake! How dare these piss ants sit and judge me! They know NOTHING!
“GGRAAA!” I scream in frustration and hate, kicking the wall with all my might. It isn't much considering my time in this place. All it serves to do is send pain shooting up my leg.
“Shut it, Potter!” A feminine voice answers my scream. Three cells over, the woman is caged as I am. I've never seen her but I know who she is. Bellatrix Lestrange. Black's cousin and self proclaimed most loyal of Lord Voldemort. She is a cold hearted bitch, sadistic to her core. She is a source of frustration and amusement.
The frustration comes from her boredom. She feels the need to taunt those around her, and I was a favorite target when I first arrived. Nothing was sacred to the sadistic woman. She would mock my mother and father, though the later I never cared form. It was a mistake that I had made that led her to find I had a particularly soft spot for my mother and sister. I curse my self for that every day. And I swore I would curse her for it as well once I had the chance.
As for her amusing me, it is less her as it is what happens to her. Green aurors with tiny penises looking to compensate often make their way down here. Bellatrix is one of the few females in this area, so she is unfortunate in that area. Some males had been unfortunate as well, but I've been lucky enough to escape that fate thus far. The aurors think no one cares what happens to her and nothing will happen to them for what they do. They are partially right. No one cares any more for what happens to her than they do for me. They seem to underestimate Lestrange though. She was not Voldemort's most feared for nothing. As I recall, the latest left here missing an ear after Lestrange bit it off. I do believe one was unfortunate enough to try to coerce her into performing orally for him. He did not leave unharmed, is all I shall mention.
“Same to you, Lestrange!” Donavan Vickers shouted. Rape, murder, pedophilia, cannibalism; you name it, he has probably committed it. I believe he is here for all of the above on a single victim; I've never bother to ask though. It is a disgusting though. He resides to the right of my own cell so I've never seen him either.
My stay within this lovely locale is almost at its end, however. One of my loyal friends on the outside is preparing my escape as we speak. And then, then these pitiful fools will find out the price of fucking with Harry Potter!
Keith Gregor was a simple and plain man, if I do say so myself. He had a basic education, muggle and otherwise. Unattractive, overweight, and single; Gregor was entering his fortieth year of life. A horseshoe of salty brown hair crowned an oily skinned scalp. His face was a minefield of acne scars dotted with two watery blue and squinting eyes. Even his robes were disdainful. Minor rips and tears lined the mud speckled robes; once red, now fading to pink. An utterly and totally disdainful creature he was; but he was my only hope.
My gentle knock on his office brings his watery eyes to my own sharp brown. “Good evening,” his low, grumbling voice came.
A slight smile taints my soft curved face. “Hello, Mr. Gregor. I am Victoria Forbisher, assistant to Mr. Scrimgeour.” I tell him softly, offering him my hand. I have to suppress a cringe and shudder at the feel of his sweaty, slimy hand in my own. “I am terribly sorry for bothering you so late. The Minister wants this done discreetly, and as quickly as possible.”
Gregor’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “I see. What … precisely, does Rufus want, again, Mrs. Forbisher?”
“Potter is to be transferred to the Ministry for trial.” a feral, hungry smile crosses my soft face. “Bastard will finally get what he deserves!”
“Trial,” he asked, confused and suspicious. “Hasn’t he already be sentenced to life here?”
“Aye,” I agree. “But he was underage when he was sentenced, and Ministry regulations forbid execution of minors, no matter what the crime. He is perfectly legal now, and Mr. Scrimgeour is aware of charges that weren’t pursued before.”
The foul man’s squinting eyes shined with delight. “Wonderful! I assume you have all the proper paperwork?”
“Indeed,” I tell him, placing a plain leather satchel on his desk. “Why don’t you fetch the keys and guards while I dig them up?” I smile bright and overly friendly at him.
His face flushes a moment before he nods. “Yes, yes. The sooner the better.” He smiles a piggish grin and then he is gone.
While he is gone, I fish out several papers, as well as my wand. All of them are, technically, the proper documents. Lisa Turpin, who works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, had nicked them for us and forged the proper signatures. She had been one of us since we were ikkle firsties. Longer than I have, technically, since I was a year beneath Harry and the others. Harry had originally recruited me to watch over his little brother, Blakemore. It was a tedious job, and I had at times resented Harry for it; but in the end, I saw the wisdom in what Harry wanted from me.
“They should be here in just a moment,” Gregor’s low voice startles me as he returns.
I smile a truly excited smile. It’s so close I can almost taste it now. “Wonderful.” I level my wand at his heart. “Avada Kedavra!” His eyes widen only long enough to take in the sea of green that snuffs his life. And as practiced with false bodies, I make quick work of his; plucking a single hair and using a temporary transfiguration charm on his corpse.
The potion I add the hair to looks like thick, dark mud and the smell and taste are reminiscent of overcooked cabbage. When nothing happened immediately, I thought that perhaps it had been improperly brewed. But then pain ripped through the tips of my fingers. Looking, I could see the flesh bubble and inflate, stretching and growing. Through the haze of pain, I can tell I misjudged Gregor’s size as I hear the transfigured clothes ripping in places and crushing my expanding body in others. My feet are, by far, the worst. The shoes are so constricting, my toes begin to bend beneath my feet and the leather crushing in to the point I was sure they would break. I only barely suppress the cry of pain.
And once the transformation has stopped, and my attire altered, I sit patiently but painfully, in the chair behind the oak desk, panting.
--
With a wary sigh, I glance about the room dispassionately. Since the end of the previous school year, all news is bad news, and I fear tonight holds no better outlook. With such a quiet upon the front, I had felt confident that little would happen; thus I eagerly welcomed the chance to improve relations between the major magic institutes of Britain. The Tri-Wizard tournament had been intended to introduce the blooming youths of Hogwarts to the foreign world of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. But even the best-laid plans of mice and men go awry. And to my great regret, young Calla Potter had been abducted during the ensuing chaos of the Third Task and forced to participate in the resurrection of Voldemort.
A frown touches my ancient lips as I turn my blue eyes towards Lily, the poor girl’s mother. Dear, sweet Lily; forced to endure so much tragedy at such a young age. The poor, poor child. Calla had, miraculously, survived without permanent injury, but the scars of the past weigh heavy on them both. The murder of both brother and father by their own kin was such a misfortune. And the young assailant himself, such a talented boy. He had so much potential. The mask little Harry had worn had been a shining example of what it meant to be a member of the light. He had helped his fellow students, been incredibly bright, and was a charismatic young man; a natural leader. But I could see the subtle similarities between himself and yet another unfortunate charismatic youngling.
Both Harry and Tom Riddle shared the same sin: Vanity. Due to a phenomenal, unexplainable event, Harry had been branded the savior of Wizarding society. It had, despite James and Lily’s honest and best efforts, gone to his head. The common wizard was beneath him, much the way Mr. Riddle felt. To be average and be treated as his peers was an unforgivable crime. He had saved the world, and now they owed him everything. Such a sad waste of talent, I muse. While I knew him conceited, I had never expected him to be this far into his own glory. What could possibly have driven him to such lengths, I wonder.
"Good evening, Headmaster," the stately-looking Emmaline Vance greets as she enters, the final member to arrive.
A slight, polite cough to garner the attention of those present, "If we are all accounted for," I begin, "Let us impel." Glancing about, I don’t know whether to be joyous at the number of new faces; or downtrodden at the lack of old.
James, quite obviously, is no longer present. He had joined at the very end of the First. What joy it had brought the exuberant man to have survived with not only his wife, but his children. Caradoc Dearborn, a man who had been so passionate about his work, gone missing and never found. Dorcas Meadowes, who had been killed by the Dark Lord personally. And even Benjy Fenwick, who was found in bits and pieces.
But on the brighter side of the coin, there are so many young and eager new faces. Emmaline Vance, the majestic looking healer. The small and plump Hestia Jones, and the shady character of Mundungus Fletcher. To only name a few, after all. The Order is far too large to name all of our members and continue on in a timely fashion.
"Mundungus?" I query patiently.
"R-right," the nervous, stuttering voice answers. "Far as I hear, nothing important has been passing through any of the normal channels. Or even the more expensive, private ones." His eyes shift round the room slowly, taking everything in. "Though it seems a few young up and comers have loose lips and let go that You-Know-Who is looking for followers."
"Suppose he ought be," Elphias wheezes. "Most o' his inner circle is still in Azkaban." Kingsley looks up at the mention of Azkaban but is polite enough to not interrupt. "But I don' see many jumping to aide him after his fall."
"It is unwise," Severus sneers, "to underestimate the Dark Lord."
Another polite cough and a stern look at the young potion master, "while I disagree with Severus' tone, the message is the same. Voldemort is quite charismatic. He will, if he puts his mind to the task, find willing servants."
"Indeed," Severus answers, "but it is odd. The Dark Lord had, until several days ago, been planning a raid of the prison. But now," a troubled, confused look passes as speaks, "it seems the furthest thing from his mind."
"Hmm," I muse aloud. It isn’t at all uncommon for Voldemort to keep his truest of goals secret. This, of course, does little to sooth my concerns. What could possibly be so important? "Do you suspect any of knowing the reasons for his change of heart?"
Snape thought a moment, and then answered slowly. "A Death Eater who is stationed close to the Minister overheard something. What, I haven’t the faintest idea, but I suspect that could be his reason. Not even Malfoy knows for certain."
"Thank you, Severus," I respond slowly, pondering. While it is true Tom allowed Lucius to learn certain things to keep the appearance of trust, if he had abandoned his servants even temporarily, it isn’t much of a surprise to leave Malfoy out of the loop. "Anything else before we move on?"
"There is something up at the Ministry; the Aurors are running about like headless chickens." Alastor's gruff growling voice called. "The grunts don’t know anything," he said looking over at Kingsley. "But there are some higher ups who know something."
"Perhaps," Kingsley's cultured voice called softly. "... Perhaps its best if we discuss this another time," his eyes darted quickly to Lily.
Lily, though, had noticed his glance, and flushed a slight angry red. “I will not be treated as some fragile glass statue!” Lily breathed; fury in her jade eyes. “I continued…”
“Lily, please.” I interrupt. “No one questions your dedication or your strength of heart.” Apologies, dear Lily, but for this much ruckus, it is better that we know. “Please continue, if you would, Kingsley.”
“If you are sure, Albus,” a polite gesture waved way. “There was an incident at Azkaban last week. Rufus Scrimgeour has been working his damnedest to keep it covered up, though. Someone stole and forged documents from the Ministry and somehow obtained an unlicensed portkey. From the details we have Keith Gregor, the night guard captain, was convinced to set up a prisoner release, called an auror escort from the prisons compliment and returned with the keys to be struck down with the killing curse.”
“Have you any suspects?” Sirius Black queries. “And why were they there? Who were they after?”
“At this point, none,” Kingsley answered. “No one seems to remember anyone entering the prison, and the logs are empty. They did manage to release one prisoner.” Kingsley glanced once more in concern at Lily. “Harry Potter.”
I can feel my bones sag and my breath begin to weigh down on my heart. If I had one desire, it was to avoid such an event at a time like this. The ever-present fear of Voldemort was enough to drive some to the breaking point. And now I must ask them to watch the shadows for not one, but two entities. One known and feared above all else and the other once a friend. Oh what twisted webs we weave.
"Thank you, Kingsley." I responded tiredly. "If there is nothing else, I have a few small requests." When no one answers, I continue, "Severus, I realize it is redundant to ask, but please, keep an ear for news of Mr. Potter." The sneering man nods, distaste in his eyes. "Alaster, I should like it if you would arrange a few members to watch over Megan Jones, Su Li, and Cho Chang."
"Might I ask why I am wasting resources like this?"
"They were ... friends of Mr. Potter during their time in Hogwarts." A moment’s pause to contemplate. "I feel, given his ... personality and their relationship, should you call it that, that he will contact them at one time or another."