Hello everyone, this is really my first shot at writing a full story. Generally I just write fragments and move on but I thought I should give a whole one a go. Please give any constructive criticism but I don't need anyone tanking it completely. Bear with me because I think it will get better as I write more of it and it starts to flow. I would appreciate it if you read and review! I'm not gonna get any better without any reviews..
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything there associated, unfortunately JK thought of him first, dang.
A cold settled in on the spectacularly plain night, it was the kind of cold that shook people from clinging to the reminiscence of summer and wanes of fall. Yet, on a night that froze all to the bone there was an immeasurable amount of warmth that spread up and down the country side as if happy thoughts alone managed to keep the frigid air at the door step, not daring to rouse the wizards from their celebrations. This was no ordinary celebration, even though there was not a cloud in the sky there was no fireworks illuminating the countryside, no songs from the pubs, it was a celebration of the most basic nature, the very best kind, one that could be enjoyed each day, it was the celebration of the downfall of fear.
However, there were some that knew no such celebration, no overwhelming joy that seemed to engulf the rest of the county. No, there were those that did not even notice the change in weather for they only knew a season of despair and were no longer subject to weather and condition.
The stone had a way of doing that, without fire places to keep the dank wings warm there was a feeling of perpetual torment, freezing conditions that seem to carry with the occupant no matter how many layers of clothing are worn, no matter how many blankets are piled on. No one ever complained though, it was an interesting situation; the deciding factor seemed to be that there was no one to complain to. You see, the guards of Azkaban are not particularly sympathetic to the plight of their wards and even if they were, they could do nothing. This is because the torment of those in Azkaban is not physical; the chill of the ever embracing cold is something that could not be penetrated by the brightest, warmest day of summer.
Left with only the deepest and darkest secrets of their being, a prisoner can only soak in that which he can grasp. Many a witch and wizard never make it past their first night in the stony cold, forced to relive the horrors of their past generally proves to be too much for the faint of heart. Of course, there are those who do not succumb to the lack of happiness, those who do not quake in the cold. They were already dead when they arrived, cold, lifeless, no longer needing the light that can only be sought outside the walls.
Then there was the cruelest of treatment, a punishment that may only take an instant to earn but was a fate worse than death. It was horrifying for him, waking up to the screams of anguish, then all would go silent, even the regular cries of a prisoner who had lost their mind were not heard on these nights. The dementor's kiss was not spoken of, it was like it invigorated the dementors, the fear of finding out what was under the tattered cloaks of the dark specters gave them more power and only increased the cold that weighed down on the inmates.
Such was the reality of one Peter Dunham, a once bright and vibrant man reduced to a dreary existence, left with only his innermost fears and hauntings. The treatment he was subject to would be considered cruel at best, yet, he knew that no witch or wizard would find any compassion for him. Often twilight would find him curled up in a corner, unable to shut his eyes without flashes of horrible sights appearing before him, the ghosts of his victims haunting his sleep. As time went by he lost sense of the difference between dreams and reality. The number of nights he had gone without a moment of rest was mounting, he knew it was slowly killing him, constant pain and grieving left him with little strength to hold out during the dark days.
This morning began as any other; the sun was set behind a host of clouds that seemed to gather in the same manner everyday. Most days it was hard to determine whether it was day or night, the only way to truly tell was by what food was slid into the cell. That is, if you considered the mish mash of unidentifiable stuffs food.
Rising from the cot that jutted from the stone wall Peter began his daily routine. It was all stone, it was an idea borrowed from the muggles because even though the cells were protected by magic wards, the Ministry of Magic saw no reason to make it anymore pleasant. He began pacing his cage, searching out the window to the waters below for something, anything to take his mind off the never ending monotony that had become his existence.
Peter was unusually unfortunate for he was not delusional; he had no thoughts of innocence, no excuses that could justify what he had done. Yet, at times that only made it worse; he had no outrageous ideas to cling to in the dark. In essence, he had no hope. Knowing of his own guilt did not eliminate the rage that emanated from him, how he, someone who had so much promise and had done so much for his community could be treated like the scum of the earth now. Well, they can all bloody rot he thought, he was sucked into a situation, he was sure that any person could have ended up the same as him. He was no mastermind, no brooding criminal, yet he was the one who feared impending damnation.
"Dunham!" was shouted, suddenly and unexpectedly he was snapped out of his haze of anger and streaming thought, dementors did not shout, yell or make much of any noise for that matter, no, this was no dementor.
It was one of the witches he recognized from the wizard hit squad. Slowly, he began to comprehend, the day was upon him. When he first arrived at Azkaban he began to count the days until this time but as the days began to run together he lost sight of this marker. He knew what this was, his last chance to explain, to ask for forgiveness, his last chance to tell his story.
He looked up at her with weary eyes and walked backward with atrophied legs to the cell door, and then he felt the first warmth in a month as a spell was cast to incapacitate him. Somehow, Peter found relief in being shackled and drug out of his cell by his escorts. He knew that this may be his last human contact for many years; today he was to face the Wizengamot and be sentenced. He knew he had little hope for anything less than life. Truth be told, he had little hope for anything but the kiss of a dementor, but even the guards who looked at him with resentment and betrayal would not dangle that fact in front of him.
Peter shuffled along with his guards in tow; he wasn't sure how they would be transporting him to the Ministry. He had no idea how he got to Azkaban in the first place, a strong indication that he was stupefied before being moved. Before Peter could even inquire how they would be going about the transport a flash of red light greeted him and all at once the world went dark again.
Working up the strength to lift his head Peter opened his eyes to more dry, cold, stone. For a moment he thought that hey may be back in Hogwarts, this whole ordeal a terrible dream. Then he heard the whispers of a hundred people, much like the buzz of angry bees. To say the Wizengamot was impressive would be a gross understatement, the premier witches and wizards of the age staring down at him from their vaulted seats was enough to make Peter squirm in his seat.
Peter was greeted with a sneer from Cornelius Fudge and thus, the trial was to begin.
"Peter Dominic Dunham, you have been brought in front of the Wizengamot today for a myriad of charges", it was as if the Fudge's voice was being magically amplified as it boomed throughout the dungeon.
"These charges include" he carried on; Peter could hardly stand to listen to the things he would be accused of.
"MURDER" was the first charge to ring out, "attempted murder, kidnapping, attempted kidnapping…the list seemed to go on for days. He could not even look up anymore, red and embarrassed Peter looked into his bound hands in shame.
"…And finally, conspiracy", Fudge also seemed to be happy with the completion of the reading of the charges. A whisper went up among the other members of the jury. Some seemed to think that the list of charges was a bit reaching; others seemed to think it only began to scratch the surface of what he had done.
"Mr. Dunham, how do you answer these charges?"
There he sat, given his final chance to explain, something he had been preparing in his mind since his criminal career began. With all the thoughts and planned speeches racing through his mind, Peter Dunham could hardly find a word to begin with.