The story takes place after the fnal defeat and destruction of Voldemort. Convicted criminals do not have to spend time in Azkaban, but are rented out as cheap workers. This is the story of one of them.
Chapter One
The Ministry had sent a note that they could supply a suitable convict by 4 o'clock on Tuesday afternoon. So at that time the family and the house elves were assembled in the hall, waiting for the arrival of the delegation from the Ministry. It was the first time they had ordered a convict and therefore everybody was nervous.
Four years ago the Ministry had come up with this novel idea of punishment. Azkaban had been partly damaged during Voldemorts's rise and the ensuing war and could not house all the prisoners. So they had developed a project based on the Muggle methods of centuries past. But instead of shipping prisoners off to far away colonies, they rented them to trustworthy wizard families as cheap servants – or slaves, as people not in favour of this practice preferred to call them. The Ministry's convict department had designed some clever devices for keeping the prisoners docile and for preventing escape. These security appliances were provided by the Ministry, as well as healthcare and clothes for the convicts, while the 'owners' were responsible for the prisoners' keep and in addition had to pay a small fee to the Ministry. The project was a huge success for both sides: The Ministry's pecuniary advantages were considerable and the wizarding society profited from the cheap labour; more and more wizards applied for a convict, demand was much higher than the number of eligible prisoners, because only the mentally and physically healthy could be rented out.
When the doorbell finally rang and four men were admitted into the hall, all eyes were focused on the prisoner, easily detectable in his Muggle style blue denim uniform with a large number printed on the back of his jacket. His hands were bound before him by means of two wristbands, one red, the other one blue. He was not a very prepossessing sight, tall and thin, with a pale, lined, haggard face and very short pepper-and-salt hair; he looked as if witnessing too many horrors had made him age prematurely. He did not look at anybody, but kept his gaze on the floor. Two Aurors held him by his upper arms. At a signal from the Ministry official they let him go. The official pointed his wand at the prisoner's wrists and the bands separated, his hands falling to his side. He showed no reaction.
The official stepped forward.
"Mr Trelawney, my name is John Green from the convict department. I bring you convict 701 to be kept as your servant. Please, touch his red wristband with your wand and confirm your claim on him."
Rather self-consciously Mr Trelawnwy stepped forward and complied. The prisoner still did not look up. The official consulted his notes.
"He must work at least 10 hours a day, six days a week. In your application you wrote that you needed him for work in the grounds and in the stables, where do you want him to sleep?"
Mr Trelwaney hesitated. "Well, I don't know if it is adequate, but we've put a cot in a corner of the stables, there's also a small bathroom there…"
"Excellent, so he does not have to enter the house?"
"He has to get food from the kitchen, I presume."
"It can be left outside the kitchen door, there is no need for him to enter the house, that means he won't be allowed to enter it, we can make that clear. Please, touch the red band again."
Mr Trelwaney did so.
"You see,´" the official went on in a confidential stage whisper, "he's not an easy one, two owners already wanted to get rid of him. He is described as defiant and stubborn, intimidating even, with an inclination to violence, so if you can keep him separated from the rest of your household, all the better."
He took hold of the prisoner's left arm and pushed the sleeve up. Trelawney and his household gasped. The Dark Mark! A former Death Eater! The official smiled, enjoying the effect he had created; the convict remained impassive.
"Now, don't worry. These wristbands assure that he is harmless. This one," he pointed at the red band, "now binds him to you and confines him to your estate, to your grounds and stables. It also makes sure that he follows your orders and that of your family. If he leaves the boundaries of your estate, if he enters the house, he will feel pain not unlike the Cruciatus. If he doesn't obey your commands, again there will be pain. In his case, as he has a history of disobedience, the level of pain is quite high."
With feelings of morbid fascination everyone watched the man with the wristbands. His drawn face looked as if he had already been subjected to a liberal amount of pain.
"The blue band limits his ability to do magic to some basic spells. He is allowed a wand, but a very inferior one, especially designed for convict issue; he can do harmless cleaning, lightning, summoning and levitation spells, but any curses, hexes or dark magic are out of the question. The bands are connected to his heartbeat, if he tries to take them off he'll die. Oh, and if you join the two wristbands and touch them with your wand, they become handcuffs, in case you want to restrain him. Any kind of punishment is allowed if he should prove renitent despite the bands."
Green now nodded to the Aurors and one of them grabbed the prisoners shoulders and turned him round so that everybody could see the number on his back.
"He is to be addressed by this number. It is printed on his jacket and shirts and also tattooed on his chest."
Another nod and the Auror again swivelled the man round and pulled up his T-shirt to display the tattoo clearly visible on the pale skin. If the prisoner felt shame at this treatment he did not show it, neither did he resist nor did his pale face reveil any emotions. Mr Trelawney opened his mouth to protest. You couldn't treat a human being like this! But then he stopped himself. After all, this was a Death Eater who probably had tortured, murdered and raped. He deserved punishment.
So instead he asked, "What about his real name?"
"There's no necessity for you to know that," Green answered, "and the convict has forfeited his right to bear it, he doesn't belong to our society any longer. Just call him by his number. He always has to address you as 'master'. Any other questions?"
Mr Trelawney shook his head, still digesting the information he had just received. "Forfeited the right to bear his name" – how cruel an idea. They treated the convicts like cattle, no worse – even cows usually had names!
"Right," the official continued, unaware of Mr Trelawney's disgust, "I'm going to give you a brochure with the most important rules of convict use, then you must sign this form, please, and we can be off."
He handed Mr Trelawney a role of parchment and a quill for signing and nodded to the Aurors, who deposited a tattered canvas bag at the convict's feet.
"His belongings," Green said, collecting the parchment. With a brief look at Mr Trelawney's signature he folded the sheet and put it into his briefcase.
"A commission from the Ministry is going to visit you every three months to inquire about his conduct and to provide new clothes if necessary. They will also examine him for his health and give him the regulation haircut. If there are any problems, contact the ministry immediately. Good-bye."
With another nod he was gone, the Aurors following in his wake.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Mr Trelawney looked at the prisoner.
"Welcome," he said and frowned. The man's lips were pressed together, tiny beads of perspiration were showing on his face, he had his arms crossed and pressed to his body. "What's the matter?" Mr Trelawney asked.
For the first time the convict looked up and met his owner's eyes.
"Pain. I - can't - stay in the house," 701 said with clenched teeth.
"Oh!" Mr Trelawney was taken aback. So it really worked. "Sorry. Let's go to the stables then. Follow me, please."
He led the way and the convict picked up his bag and stumbled after him.
The other household members sighed with relief about his departure.
"What an awful man!" Laura Trelwaney, the youngest daughter, exclaimed disgustedly.
"Have you seen his face? Such a large, crooked nose – Merlin, how ugly."
"What a poor man!" her sister Fiona retorted. "he looks as if he had not eaten a proper meal for years!"
Fiona snorted. "He's a criminal, a Death Eater, he doesn't deserve any better!" She allowed herself a theatrical shudder. "I don't want him to look after our horses. Dad has to make that clear. And I don't want him to be around when we look after them. He scares me so."
Laura agreed. After all, he bore the Dark Mark.
Outside Mr Trelawney walked 701 to the stables, explaining some of the gardening duties to him on the way. The man did not say anything, he just nodded, his black eyes unfathomable. In the stables there were two horses in their boxes and behind a wooden partition in the corner there was a cot with an old army sleeping bag and two blankets, several hooks on the wall and a shelf.
"Your place," Mr Trelawney said. 701 looked at him, his eyes revealing some emotion for the first time. "Yes, thank you." He winced slightly "The bathroom is over there," Mr Trelawney went on, pointing at a door in the opposite wall. "Is there anything you need?" he asked.
701 shook his head. "No." He winced again.
"Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?" The convict looked as if he had a negative response on the tip of his tongue, but then thought better of it. "Yes, thank you." And winced.
"I'll tell the house-elves to make you something and put it outside the kitchen door for you to fetch."
"Thank you." This time he nearly doubled over with pain. Mr Trelawney watched him suspiciously. What was the matter with him now?
"Tomorrow you can muck out the stables and then start with the lawns."
"Yes – master," the convict ground out and closed his eyes with relief when the pain stopped.
Now Mr Trelawney understood. He smiled sadly, nodded at the convict and left, marvelling at the Ministry's unexpected efficiency in tormenting prisoners.
The convict unpacked his few possessions and lay down on the cot. He sighed and closed his eyes. He had a splitting headache and was tired. Tired of his life, tired of the constant humiliation. A new owner – he had not believed they would find one for him, not after all that had happened. He had hoped to be allowed to finish his miserable life in Azkaban, alone in a cell, far away from the normal world and the company of normal, happy people. He had not believed them when they had taken him from his cell and told him they had found a new owner, that he would be going to Cornwall, had thought it was one of their cruel jokes. Then he had been apprehensive, afraid even, of what would await him at the Trelawneys. The name evoked memories – but that had been long ago and there seemed to be no connection.
Now he thought that in a way he was lucky; things could have turned out worse, much worse.
He had been addressed politely, he had been given something like a room of his own, with a real bed and a bathroom. His former owner, proprietor of a repair service for broomsticks and a widower since he had lost his wife in a Death Eater attack during the war, had been out for revenge, making the convict work harder and longer than required by the rules and locking him in a kind of cage in the workshop every night with his hands bound and nothing but the bare concrete floor to sleep on. Instead of a bathroom there had been a bucket and a bowl of water. Food had meant half-rotten leftovers salvaged from the dustbin. Former Death Eaters didn't deserve anything better. He had become ill and too weak to do his work properly, as a result he had suffered constant pain from the wristbands and had been subjected to Cruciatus-curses and beatings by his furious master on a regular basis. One day the convict had been unable to take it anymore and had gathered all his strength to fight back. He had stood no chance, of course. When the Ministry officials came to collect him he was half-dead from a prolonged Cruciatus and in so bad a condition that he had to spend several days in the High Security Wing of St Mungo's before being returned to Azkaban. He still suffered from the aftermaths, a slight continuous tremor in his hands.
The new owner seemed different. He appeared to be head of an honourable old wizarding family and didn't convey the impression of wishing to add to the convict's punishment, would gladly leave him alone if he obeyed his orders; and as for living on a picturesque country estate in Cornwall – the situation could definitely have turned out worse.
Thanks to J.K.Rowling for the inspiring characters