It's cold.

Not cold like walking outside onto Hogwarts grounds on a chilly evening. Not cold like forgetting your coat during winter. This is deeper. It's a chill that spreads through your flesh, down to your bones and further; into your very soul. It drips like slime into your mind as the years go by, slowly consuming your sanity, if not as quickly as the dementors themselves. It's a cold that sinks its teeth into you and leaves a scar behind to keep you company long after it leaves you.

When they first bring him here, to this grey, colorless place, he believes that he will break, if not now, then with time. He knows himself, knows his limits. The Dursleys had broken him once, in a different way, but this will be worse. It's the end for him, and he's given up. He thinks it might be easier, to be insane.

But it doesn't happen.

It doesn't take long for him to notice that the dementors, dark cruel beings that they are, do not affect him as they had short years previously. True that even he cannot escape from the cold they bring with them as they glide silently through the hallways; but there are no screams in his head. His happy memories and thoughts are not stolen away from him as he thinks of them- dwells on them. He is not forced to relive the horrors of his past. The dementors, for all intents and purposes, do not affect him at all.

It takes him much longer, after realizing this, to discover that it is not some hidden, and recently unlocked, power of his own that does this (at least not as far as he can tell) but the dementors themselves. For whatever the reason, they are purposely sparing him.

In the beginning, he thinks that this was on his orders. But when the man comes to mock him, his words make it sound as though he expects Harry to be affected, so that isn't it, which means it is the dementors themselves, choosing not to affect him, and that leads to many more questions than answers.

He tries to ask them why, tries to speak with them, but though they stop beside his cell and watch him, and, once, a dementor gently touches his hand on the bars of the cell (its rotting wrinkled flesh offering both comfort and a feeling of disgust), they do not answer him. Perhaps they do not understand. Perhaps they do but cannot speak.

Whatever it is, he is given no answers.

Over time, he comes to think of them as guardians of a sort. For all that he had once feared them, now that they do him no harm, they become his silent companions. This belief is reaffirmed one day, when one of the death eaters comes to mock him like the Dark Lord does, and is foolish enough to curse him through the bars. He watches as they swarm him. When he can again see the man through the swirling black cloaks, his eyes are blank and empty; his body still breathing but the man himself long gone.

They carry the body away, and Harry is certain not even he ever learns of his fate. He takes to speaking with them, telling them, cautiously, about his life before this prison. They float outside his cell and listen. When he never brings up anything he tells them, Harry's tongue becomes even looser.

It is a long time before he thinks to ask anything of them. He mentions one day that he misses treacle tart, and, low and behold, there is a small piece of it with his next meal.

It startles him, this blatant example that they have some care for his happiness, but he doesn't try to test his limits at first. He waits, cautious and paranoid, for several days before he tries to request anything else. When he does he asks for something to read. Azkaban is boring, and he wants a way to pass the time.

He isn't sure there even are books here, but, lo and behold, the very next day a dementor floats just outside his cell, a small stack of tomes in its hands. There are four; three of them dry law books and the last a book on magical theory. Not the most interesting of subjects, but it's a step up from having nothing to do at all. He reads each one slowly, keeping them hidden between his thin mattress and the squat metal stand it sits upon.

When he is done with them a week or so later, he passes them to one of the dementors with a thank you and a request for more books. He isn't going to be picky about subject matter, both because he doesn't think they would understand enough to get him specific books, and also because (perhaps it was a leftover instinct from his time with the Dursleys) he doesn't want to seem ungrateful or spoiled.

The next set of books contains a children's storybook, another law book, two books regarding the history of Azkaban and other wizarding prisons, and a complicated tome on wandless magic.

The last of the lot hurts his head if he tries to read too much at once, but he keeps at it, and when he eventually returns the other books that one remains hidden in his cot (so does the children's book, somewhat to his embarrassment, but he'd been denied the pleasure of wizarding fairy tales in his own childhood, and the vibrant moving pictures were the only colors in his life in this grey place).

It is a while before they bring him more, and he thinks, given the relative subject matter of those they'd brought so far, that they've brought him all they can find on the dreary island. But after a couple weeks or so one of them comes with a small stack, all on magical cleaning and house charms, with stamps in them stating they belong to a library in Scotland. He thinks whichever one had retrieved them must have just grabbed several books from a single shelf at random, and it furthers his belief that they would not be able to pick out individual subject matter for him.

Still, he reads what they bring, gives them back with a request they be returned to the library, and a query for more books from a different shelf. The next set are on magical creatures, the ones after that on weather-based spells (theory entirely, excepting a few spells like how to stay dry in the rain, warming and cooling charms and one to prevent sunburn- proper weather spells, the sort that affect it, are old and dark and, according to the books, entirely illegal), and the ones after that are children's books; bright and colorful and a wonderful change of pace if not particularly useful.

It continues in this vein for what feels like months but could be as little as a few weeks or as long as a year. Harry always keeps the books long enough to savor them- to memorize them nearly, and tries not to ask for too much more in the interim.

Then, one day, he happens to mention that he misses the sky (and he does, terribly so- he dreams of his broom in his more melancholy moments). He has taken to just talking at them nearly every day by this point- jabbering on about his past, his friends and family and the world outside and what he learns from the books they bring- what he will do with the knowledge one day. Two days later, a Dementor opens his cell door, and leads him out in a shocked daze. Down the hallway and stairs, more halls and twisting turns, and out through a small half-hidden door to a little outcropping of rocks.

He has been able to smell the ocean from his cell, but here he can feel the spray of sea-foam as the waves crash against the island, see the white of the cloud and fog covered sky and be nearly blinded by the brightness of it- sun or no.

It is glorious.

He stands there, awed and beaming, until the light begins to fade and the clouds above turn gold and then black with night- and then is filled with stars and distant planets all sparkling and lit up, like Christmas lights and glitter; and then he tells the dementor he is ready to go back, and it leads him back up to his cell and puts him back in it.

He has a suspicion though, that if he asked, the being would take him away from the island altogether, and suddenly he doesn't feel like a prisoner so much as a guest.

The dementors are kind to him, are too protective to let him be harmed, careful not to let their power harm him and are courteous enough to try and give him every small thing he asks for, even though he never asks for much. He doesn't know why they do these things, doesn't know why they act this way and why he seems to expect loyalty from them that he is clearly not getting (even if he is not aware of it).

He wonders where their loyalty truly lies.

(Wonders if, somehow, it lies with him.)

(Wonders what that means for him, and what he can do with it.)

(Wonders, quietly, if and how he can repay it.)

judgeamannotbyhowhetreatshisbettersbutbyhowhetreatsthoselesserthanhimself

He is quiet in the week following his trip out to the rocks, and then, finally, when he speaks again it's to ask the dementor that brings him his meal if it and the others would like anything in return for the things they have done for him.

It floats there for several moments, silent and still, and then it reaches a wrinkled near-skeletal hand through the bars and rests it on his face. It's gentle, and the skin feels strange and cold as ice, and he doesn't move, and it holds the hand there for several beats of his heart before pulling away and leaving. He watches it go, even more confused than before.

They take to touching him after that, soft brushes along his hands or face or arms, and he allows it, talking at them again and continuing the exchange of various books (he has read about dragons and historical deaths and childcare, and even the most dull books have started to become fascinating- with nothing else to entertain him), and once a week or so he asks to be taken back to the rocks where he sits and basks in the feeling of the sea and, rarely, the sun.

He gains a deep appreciation for the sun, for the warmth it brings.

(He gains a deep appreciation for the little things.)

"Would you take me away from here?" He asks one of them one day, and it moves to open his cell. "No. I'm not asking now. I just want to know if you would if I did." It stares at him from the hooded darkness, and then nods, and he nods back and then it leaves.

He doesn't ask.

(He doesn't know why he doesn't ask.)

Eventually he can tell the difference between them. The dementors are all frighteningly similar, but they are not clones of each other. There is one whose cloak is ashen at the bottom, and one who pulls its hood lower than the others, and one who moves its head in a jittery way that stands out. Their skin is all pale, but ranges from parchment to snow to light smoky grey, and he learns to notice the small things- the little differences that set them apart.

"Can I name you?" He asks. "Can I give you names?" They don't answer, but they watch him expectantly, and he does it. He names each of them, and he takes note when after he has named all the ones that interact with him regularly, others he has not seen before come and float before him in waiting until he names them too; until he has named them all.

There are two hundred and eighteen of them. He counts and he remembers, and he is careful not to give any of them the same name as another- some have proper names like George and Harold, Elizabeth, and Darleen, and others are named after other things- Snow and Soot and Birch.

He names them and they become his- and he knows this but doesn't know what it means.

Doesn't think it really matters.

(But wonders if it does.)

judgeamannotbyhowhetreatshisbettersbutbyhowhetreatsthoselesserthanhimself

Snow is his favorite. He doesn't know if dementors have any concept of gender, doesn't think they do, but he calls Snow female. Her skin is the palest of them all, so white he can nearly see through it, and her cloak is slightly lighter a shade- still a black but not quite the coal color that is most common. He doesn't think anyone else would be able to see the difference, but nonetheless...

She is almost always the one to take him outside, and though she doesn't often take responsibility for bringing him his meals, she nearly always retrieves the platter on which it comes, and is prone to floating about, watching him, if she sees he has left anything behind until he gets so uncomfortable he eats it. In the beginning he thought he might be being poisoned or drugged, but now he thinks it's more like Mrs. Weasley. She wants him to eat and keep his strength.

That is what makes him her favorite. It's the thing that sets her apart. They all care about him, he knows that, somehow, but her care is more- greater, bigger. She has some position of authority amongst them too, he thinks- she is always leading if she floats alongside others, but it's not that important.

One day he sits on the rocks with the waves crashing below and the sound of thunder in the distance, and asks her to bring him a broom. It is not raining, not yet, and she gives him no answer and makes no move to give him what he asks.

But a bit over a week later she brings a broom to his cell. It's an old comet, a far cry from his Firebolt, but it's a working broom and he holds it tightly, hides it carefully, clings to it until the next time he permits himself to go outside (he is careful, so very careful about when and for how long he goes- he knows that his absence would be noted if he did this at the wrong time) and then he asks Snow if she and some of the others will fly with him for a bit.

She leaves him there on the rocks, gliding back inside the prison to gather some of the others for his purpose, and he has a moment, standing there on the rocks, alone, with broom in hand, where he realizes that he is free. Voldemort may think him a prisoner here, but Harry stands outside his cell with a means of leaving given to him easily, and knows that he is free. He doesn't leave. He can.

(But he doesn't.)

The storm has been brewing and heading their way for days now, and as he waits it finally breaks, and he closes his eyes with his head tilted back and revels in the feeling of it- it is so cold but he is used to the cold, and it feels almost like a shower and he hasn't had one of those in ages.

He scrubs at himself with a fistful of wet sand, and it is enough to clean him, but not enough to satisfy. He could ask to bathe in the ocean, he knows that, but he is wary of the scent of salt clinging to his skin and letting him know that he has been outside. Voldemort doesn't come often, maybe every two or three months or so (he thinks, but it is hard to keep track of time here, and he is not about to make scratches on the wall for it like a caged animal), but the man is observant and he doesn't want to risk it.

For all that he knows they care for him, that they are disobedient enough to the Dark Lord to grant him his freedom, they have yet to directly challenge him, and he doesn't know if the man can hurt them.

(They are his. The thought of any harm coming to them sets his blood aflame- It is the most heat he has felt since being brought here- and makes something dark and merciless twist and snarl inside him. They are his. No one will touch them.)

(He will not permit it.)

Snow returns with Grace and Samuel and Moss and Graves and he smiles at them, mounts the broom, and takes to the sky. It is not as fast as his firebolt (and he misses that so much) but the wind whips through his hair- It has grown long and he didn't notice before now- and the rain pelts him and his dementors streak and twist around him, racing and playing as best they know how.

He's grinning and laughing and joyous and it is the best day he has had in ages.

judgeamannotbyhowhetreatshisbettersbutbyhowhetreatsthoselesserthanhimself

It is like waking up, that day of flying in the rain. He has been sleeping for ages and now he is awake and aware again- sensitive to every feeling, every touch of his dementors- every smell and sight and sound. His mind has sharpened suddenly.

He is alive again.

He is not like he was before, not normal again, he probably never will be. There is something wrong with him and he knows that now, hadn't noticed it before, but it's okay. He's off but still sane, and thinking clearly enough now to know that though he has no real desire to leave, he should start preparing to.

He doesn't call it escaping, not even in his mind, because he is not a prisoner anymore- perhaps he never was- no matter what Voldemort believes. But he has been here long enough, and he misses his friends and Sirius and the Weasleys, and Hogwarts.

(Part of him wants to go, more of him wants to stay, but he doesn't quite trust his own mind enough right now to be sure staying is what he would want if he were normal, so he needs to leave and get away and find out. And if it is bad, if Azkaban is better, then he will come back.)

So he tells the dementors, tells Shell specifically because he seems to understand English the best at times- that he wants his old things, wherever they are, and the being looks at him and flies off, and is gone. He doesn't know if Shell will succeed but knows he will try because they have never failed him in that. He's not even certain himself where his old things are or if they can be found. He doesn't know if Voldemort has any of them or if they are secured away by his friends, but it doesn't matter.

He doesn't have a wand. His is gone now, and if he asks the dementors for one they will bring him one, bring him a hundred, and it will take ages to find one that works and he doesn't want that. So instead he turns to the book on wandless magic (it's one of Voldemort's, left behind on the island entirely by accident, and there are a couple pages missing- the ones that say this sort of magic is best learned from a very very young age- ripped out in a fit of rage- but Harry knows none of this, and there is nothing to tell him his goal is impossible) and practices.

The book says that it's difficult but it's not at all.

His magic is there when he reaches for it, and it follows his direction like a trained dog. He is pleased. He casts cleaning charms and warming ones, transfigures his cot into a button and back again, blasts a hole in one wall and then repairs it. The dementors come and watch, curious as cats, and he casts all manner of spells, everything- anything that he can think of- everything he knows until he exhausts himself.

(Everything but the Patronus, because the White Stag once served him faithfully, but now he has no need of it.)

(He wonders if that counts as a betrayal- if he is as bad as Voldemort because he is so willing to throw away something that once saved his life.)

(Then he remembers that the Patronus is a spell, and not a person, and asks himself if he would ever throw away one of the dementors. When the answer is no he knows that everything is fine.)

When he is done he sits down, and some of the dementors stay and others float off, bored. He sits on the cold stone and thinks, tries to remember why he is here. It's hard to remember, and he doesn't know why, even though the memory once haunted his every thought.

But he does remember, when he tries. He remembers that Voldemort found out about the horcrux, that he locked their connection up tight with occlumency chains, and that he stuffed him here until he could figure out how to take it out without destroying it. He doesn't come to taunt, Harry remembers now, although he always does that. He comes to test his spells and see if any of them will work.

Huh. Voldemort has been pulling and tugging at his soul, and it's only now that he wonders if that's what's wrong with his mind.

Then he has an idea that Voldemort probably never has had (wouldn't have had because he has been trying to pull this sliver of soul out without harming it any- though he doesn't care if Harry is shredded to bits), and turns to Snow, who floats near and watches him gather wool.

"Can you suck out the piece of him?" He asks. She comes close after a moment- they always do that, stop and decipher his words before acting- and lifts her hands to put on his cheeks, holding his face still. He knows she can kill him, can devour his very self- suck up everything that he is. But she won't. He trusts that she won't.

She leans down and kisses his scar like a mother (her lips feel waxy and gross but it's like a comfort) and there is a tug- a pull- a wrenching- and then he feels lighter inside himself than he has in ages, and the horcrux is gone.

Or the soul-part of it is. There's something left behind and he can feel it now that he knows to look, but it's not as important, not tied directly to Voldemort, and that's all that matters to him.

"Is that it?" She doesn't answer, just pulls away and floats there. "Huh. That was easier than I'd thought it would be." It's like she's just been waiting for him to ask for it.

Maybe she has.

(It doesn't matter.)

He grabs her hand and squeezes, and then transfigures his cot into a grand bed- uses the last of the magic in him at the moment to do it, and then falls onto it, asleep before his head hits the pillow.

He is very tired.

judgeamannotbyhowhetreatshisbettersbutbyhowhetreatsthoselesserthanhimself

When he wakes up, he thinks maybe that wasn't a great idea. It was a joy to sleep in, but if Voldemort comes and sees the bed and all the other spellwork he's done to his little cell-

Well. He thinks it would not be good.

So he casts more spells until everything looks the way it once did (the walls are a little cleaner than they should be but maybe it won't be noticed), and then he asks to go outside again, because why not? He's been reckless, so why not keep it up?

A week passes and he asks for all sorts of things while he waits for Shell to return, and many of Azkaban's guards are gone from the premises in attempts to answer his requests. No one notices. Or well, if they do Harry hears nothing of it. (Not that he's ever heard anything about the outside world since being here- he doesn't even know what day it is- but that hardly matters) No one shows up to start a fuss about it, and Voldemort does not pay him a visit, so all is as well as it can be.

He's in a cheerful mood throughout it all, and in the weeks after that pass, and when Shell miraculously shows up with both his school trunk and all it contains, a small stuffed bear, and several blankets. He has no idea how those other things are supposed to be his, but they're his now and he thanks his friend and tries to give him a hug- he's sort of wispy under the cloak and Harry thinks they only have solid upper bodies, so mostly he just winds up hugging a ragged bit of cloth- but Shell seems very pleased to have made him happy.

He plans, he prepares, and then, one day, he hops on his broom, everything he owns now on him and tucked away.

And Harry Potter and two hundred and eighteen dementors vanish. A Dark Lord panics and rages. A Newspaper publishes what they call the story of the century. And a group of people hidden away in a dreary old house gather round and read it together, and wonder to themselves what is happening.

Amongst them, an old man with a long beard reads the black and white print silently, old fairy tales and forgotten legends swirling inside his head like smoke. More than one prophecy springs into his thoughts. Visions of crowns and redemption and spirits dancing behind his eyes.

He smiles.

judgeamannotbyhowhetreatshisbettersbutbyhowhetreatsthoselesserthanhimself