Chapter 1
Lord of Azkaban
The pale, cold moonlight shone overhead, giving the island prison of Azkaban the look of a tomb. The huge, featureless walls of the fortress towered above forbidding mountain peaks, all looming over an icy, rock-filled sea. Fog swirled around the towers of the fortress endlessly, blocking the light and putting the island in perpetual gloom. Invisibility spells kept anyone from seeing the island, sparing them the miserable sight. Muggle-repelling charms covered every inch of the beaches, and powerful wards protected anyone from straying too close.
Anyone who had visited Azkaban would tell you that the look was perfectly appropriate for what happened here. But very few people left Azkaban, and none of them left without leaving a piece of themselves behind. Things happened in those dark walls, unseen by the wizarding world. No matter why you were sent here, no matter how guilty or innocent you were, what happened in Azkaban was enough to break your mind and rob you of the deepest, most precious fragments of your soul.
It was the keepers of the prison that were responsible for this, the ones that truly earned the place such a fearsome reputation. The tall, gruesome Dementors were the reason this was the most feared place in the wizarding world, and with good reason. These lumbering creatures with their clammy appearance and their cold, lipless mouths had to wear thick, black cloaks to hide themselves from the rest of the world, or just their ghastly appearance would horrify a man to the depths of his being.
But what was in the cloaks was horrific for far better reasons than mere appearance. Something about these creatures sucked the very life out the air and made everything around them seem dead and hopeless. Only once this had driven you to despair and driven your mind to breaking point would the cowls of those dark hoods drop. Then, you would see those dead, sightless eyes, and those thin, cruel mouths. Those cold, clammy lips would perform their kiss, and whatever was left of your soul would be burned away. It was the kind of thought that made screams ring out in those cold nights.
Nobody would willingly come here. The gigantic double doors at the front of the prison were almost never used, and to most of the prisoners, it seemed that they were just there to taunt them. To remind them that there was an entire world outside, that they would most likely never see again. The thought of escape was preposterous. Even if you could make it through those doors, the Dementors would follow you to the ends of the Earth. They would never stop. They would never give up.
At least, that was how it seemed to Tobias Lestrange, as he lay on his back in his cell, at the top of the highest tower in the fortress. There was no way out of this place, and he would rot here. But then he shook his head, and wrote it off as the effects of the Dementors' presence. There was hope for him now, as there had not been ever since his incarceration in this dank, gloomy prison. Even now, the mark that was seared onto his arm burned him, hot to the touch. His master had arisen again, and surely he would come to rescue his loyal servant.
The Dark Mark on his arm had burned fiercely for weeks now. Lestrange had no idea when it had started, because time seemed to have very little importance in Azkaban. In fact, he had stopped paying any attention to the time long ago, and only started trying to keep track of the days since the mark had started to throb. But very little light got through the fog, making it impossible to judge the passing of the days.
Lestrange walked over to the window and pulled himself up to look out of the bars. There was no reason to do this, but there was really no reason to do anything. Lying in a cell for years has a way of focusing the mind, and now there was only one thing on Lestrange's mind. Wait for the master. This had been his routine ever since the mark started to burn all those days ago, and if it took ten years, then he would gladly wait. Just to serve the master once more. But as he looked down, he realised it wouldn't take ten years.
A dark figure had appeared at the huge entrance to the prison, and walked, without hesitation, to the door. The door opened to admit him, a huge Dementor on each side holding it open. Their eyes could never see who it was, but some kind of perception told them who it was. Just as it was clear to Lestrange who it was. The dark, powerful figure that strode through the now-opened doors could only be one person. His master had arrived.
Lord Voldemort walked through the door, looking at the Dementors on each side. At each corridor, more Dementors stood, obedient, loyal and silent. The Dementors could not see, but they could sense the thoughts of those around them. They understood the dark processes of Voldemort's mind and felt what was inside his heart. The dark hatred within Voldemort was like a siren's song to them. It called out to them, like a part of their own darkness calling to them. Voldemort, like them, was a creature of darkness, and these kindred spirits were united once more.
Behind him, Voldemort could hear the sounds of people using a portkey. Lucius Malfoy and Wormtail had appeared behind him, clutching a battered silver plate in their hands. They walked up to the door, and stood by the side of their master. Wormtail looked like a pile of dirty rags on Voldemort's right side, and looked like he had not washed, shaved or considered his appearance for weeks. However, his shining, magical hand still gleamed like new, and seemed to glow with an unnatural, unnerving light in the deep gloom of Azkaban.
Lucius Malfoy, standing on Voldemort's left, was the very antithesis of Wormtail. While Wormtail was stooped, defeated and dishevelled, his thinning hair flapping in the breeze, Malfoy stood tall and proud, his gelled blond hair untroubled by the light winds. He was clean and well groomed, and almost looked like he had dressed especially for the occasion. He was impeccably dressed, with most of his body hidden by a thick cloak of a deep, light-absorbing purple. But most disturbing of all were the cold, grey eyes that looked at the scene before him, with a stony, unnerving sense of detachment.
The Dementors stood, waiting for their master's command. They paid no attention to Malfoy and Wormtail, treating them as if they were an insignificance. They only had eyes for their master, who had finally returned to them. They had all assembled around the entrance to Azkaban, as they had known of the Dark Lord's presence the minute the portkey brought him to the island. For most of the fourteen years since his downfall, they had stood watch over Azkaban. Watching over those that the Ministry of Magic found it convenient to forget, biding their time until Voldemort returned to them.
Voldemort remained silent, acknowledging the Dementors' readiness with a nod. Then, he raised one arm, and pointed a single long, spindly finger toward the cells. The Dementors obeyed his command, walking to the cells, ready to release those imprisoned within. Then, Voldemort turned to Wormtail, and directed him to follow them. Wormtail blanched at the idea of following those grim creatures to the cellblock. However, he could not disobey his master, and he turned to follow the Dementors to the nearby cells.
Finally, Voldemort said a few quiet words to Lucius Malfoy, and gestured toward a downward staircase nearby, which led to the dungeons. As he had been directed, Lucius Malfoy went down the staircase, prepared to do his master's bidding. After seeing him leave, Voldemort stood still, and looked around the room appraisingly, as if he could taste the misery and depression that pervaded the room. Then he walked across the room, and started to walk up the staircase, going up to the main tower.
Wormtail followed the Dementors to the main cells, hearing the cries of the people inside them. Some were screaming, driven too far by the presence of the Dementors to notice the arrival of Wormtail. Still others called out to him, begging to be released from their cells. Some of them just stared, wondering what was to happen to them now. Walking down this corridor was like walking through the gates of hell. The sheer sound and stench of the place would revile a man, and make him turn and run in disgust.
However, the cell Wormtail was going to was at the end of the row, so he kept walking past the mass of prisoners calling after him. His master had given him a specific task, one which must be completed to let the wizarding world see that his master had truly returned. Wormtail had taken the lead, walking in front of the Dementors, leading them to one particular cell. He detested the presence of the Dementors, but they were necessary. He would require them to fulfil his task.
Wormtail reached the door of the cell he had been sent to, and looked inside. The man he was looking for was inside, staring back at Wormtail through the bars of the cell door. For a moment, they just looked at each other wordlessly. Then, he ran to the door, and pressed his face between the bars. Wormtail could clearly see the look of despair in his eyes, and the pale look of skin that had not seen the sun in many years. Then his dry, thin lips started to move.
"Pettigrew! I thought you were-"
"No. I have been in hiding, working to bring about my master's rebirth. You, on the other hand, have been waiting here to be released, and to do the master's bidding again?"
"Yes... I knew he would rise again. I am ready to do whatever my master wishes."
"Good. My master has plans for you..."
With those words, Wormtail unlocked the door to the cell, and then stood aside, allowing two Dementors to walk into the room. For a moment, the man in the cell looked confused, not realising what was about to happen to him. Suddenly, his fate dawned on him, and he backed against the wall, screaming for mercy. The Dementors did not stop coming, and continued to advance on him. At the doorway, Wormtail watched the Dementors' advance, and listened to their victim's anguished, tormented screams. But he had to look away before the Dementors performed their Kiss.
As the screams died away, at the top of the tallest tower in the prison, Voldemort stood in the now-opened doorway to Tobias Lestrange's cell. He stood and looked at the ruin of a man that the cell contained. Lestrange was standing by the window, his cold, deadened eyes wide and staring, his matted locks twisted around his face. Lestrange was thin, his skin was waxy and his clothes were rags. This was a man that had suffered his own personal hell for the last few years, and had survived by hinging his very sanity on one, overriding obsession.
That obsession was now standing in the doorway, larger and more menacing than it seemed possible for a man to be. It was all Lestrange could do not to fall to his knees and weep, knowing that finally his wait was over. Instead, he just continued to stand and stare, waiting for the dark figure's command. Suddenly, for the first time since his incarceration, Lestrange heard his master's rasping, menacing voice.
"Tobias. I have come for you. Are you prepared? Ready to stand at my side once more?"
"Yes, Master. I have waited for you."
"Good. It is time for us to reclaim our place in the wizarding world. It is time for us to reclaim the legacy of Slytherin. Come. I have other servants to release."
As Voldemort set to work releasing his servants in Azkaban, someone realised that something was happening. Half a world away, a certain 14-year-old boy woke up, with a searing pain in a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead.
Disclaimer: All characters in this FanFiction belong to JK Rowling. They aren't mine, and I am making no money from using them like this. This is a 'Please don't sue me' production.
So, that was Chapter 1 of my first Harry Potter story. Doesn't really tell you very much about what's going to happen, does it? In fact, this is just an excuse for Voldemort to wander around and look menacing. But there will be more happening later. And who knows? Maybe Harry will actually do something in the next chapter! ;)
Well, you've read the story! Now, be nice and review it, could you?