Azkaban was a desolate place. Not just for life, but for signs of it too.
Percy Weasley allowed himself a short shudder as he was escorted through the gray, ashen fort yard, to the tall, dark tower. He had never been to Azkaban before, and had this been about anyone else, he would have refused the dubious honour of retrieving them.
But this was Harry Potter. One did not reject anything when it came to Harry Potter.
His mouth curled mirthlessly. He worried his lower lip, uncaring for the blood that flooded his mouth. Shivers started in his hands, and no matter what he did, he couldn't stop them. He pulled them behind his back, feeling stiff and cold, and fingers digging into flesh as he tried to stop himself from trembling all over.
His escort didn't talk. They were as quiet and lifeless as the entire blasted island was. The only sounds he could hear, was those he made himself. The slight whine from his nose, the blood hammering in his ears, his heart racing and his shoes moving across the filthy floor.
Eventually, they came to the cells. His legs throbbed. Sweat coated his skin, and his breath came a bit shorter than he'd like it to. Was he really that unfit? Stairs upon stairs. His escort never slowed, never stopped, never even seemed to notice his issues. It wasn't their job to.
The cell was about half way up, if Percy had any estimate. Of course, he'd just taken half a hundred staircases, long staircases, so he might be a bit bias. The cell didn't look any different from the others. Gritty, smelly and covered in filth. Like most of the prisoners of Azkaban, the cells inhabitant lied on the tattered remains of a blanket, as filthy, smelly, and gritty as the cell was, looking blindly at the ceiling. His body laid still, stomach moving ever so slightly, inhale and exhale.
Something thick formed in Percy's throat.
He would be the first one to admit that out of all the Weasleys, Percy had probably been the only one who didn't adore Harry Potter. Oh, the boy was nice enough, but he had a terrible habit of pulling Percy's youngest siblings into all sorts of lethal and dangerous things. The rest of the family didn't seem to notice, or blame the boy, and while Percy knew it hadn't been quite right, he had.
He had blamed the boy, which was why he was amongst those who celebrated when he got thrown into jail. Of course, what the public hadn't known, what Percy hadn't known, was that it hadn't been one of the smaller prisons, or even one of those on the continent. He rather doubted the Ministry would have stopped hearing about it, had anyone known Harry Potter, fourteen at the time, had been thrown into Azkaban.
Especially since one of the things he had been accused of, was to be dealing with rouge, or wild dementors. A silly accusation, but one that had been there. One out of a long list of silly accusations. Accusations that any decent Defender would have easily have torn apart. But like so many things in his life, which Percy had only recently come to realise, Potter had been denied the use of a Defender. In fact, throughout his hearing, or trial as it turned out to become, he'd not been allowed to answer a single question, and had been dozed with over eleven illegal substances, making him agree to anything Minister Fudge had said.
Former Minister, that is. Percy rather doubted the man would even live much longer, now that the Potter trial, and imprisonment had been revealed to the public. Through, perhaps, one of the least likely sources as well.
Dennis Creevy was a brilliant journalist. Well known for always double checking his facts and being able to make even the most boring of subjects fascinating and gripping. He wasn't however, known for his intelligence or depth. He was the sort of journalist that went door to door to ask questions, not dig into the deepest of the ministry depths, in order to unravel possible the largest scandal since Albus Dumbledore came up with evidence that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was actually a halfblood born with the name Tom Marvolo Riddle.
As such, when Creevy came out of nowhere telling everyone Harry Potter had not only been innocent of every single one of the things he had been accused off, but that Minister Fudge had ensured he would be voted guilty, and that he'd been thrown into Azkaban.
Well.
Percy took a step inn. He grimaced at the horrified groan his shoes made, and the way they seemed to shrink around his feet.
"Mister Potter?" Percy called softly. The boy didn't move. Percy took his wand from his pocket and lighted a small, soft, blue flame at the tip of it. And screamed. He couldn't help it.
He staggered back, tripped on the hem of his expensive robes, and fell right on his rear. Eyes wide, mind blank, he stared at the large, bloodied rat. It was as big as a cat, and that was only what Percy could see, as the rest of the rat's body remained within the hole it had dug within Harry Potters stomach.
Bile flowed through his mouth, and he barely had the thought process to turn his head to the side.
His escort laughed, before entering themselves. Percy felt light headed.
Merlin. He hated Azkaban.
AN
I started reading one of my old favourite betrayal fics, and was inspired to write something a bit, erm, different. This is possible a oneshot, I haven't decided yet. Just know that if I do continue this, Harry is going to be insane.
Tell me what you think! Should I continue this, or is it shiny just as it is?
English isn't my mother tongue, and I'm a bit dyslectic on top of that, so if you notice anything off with grammar, spelling, or the wording, please tell me so I can get at it.
Silver Flare out!