I'm sitting on the stone cold floor in Alastor Moody's office. My hands are tied to my body with magical ropes and my feet are tied together. I resemble, so it seems, an ancient mummy from Egypt, but I feel more like a larva in its cocoon. Either way, I can't move my hands, my feet and I'm freezing cold.
From my sitting position I silently observe the room which had been my home for the past several months. The ghostly features of Dumbledore, Snape and McGonagall's faces are still visible in the Foe Glass. My - Moody's - magical instruments: silvery metal orbs lay scattered on my desk, on the shelves, in the cupboards; everywhere. Dumbledore asked McGonagall to guard me after he'd returned from taking Potter away. I never liked this woman during my 'professorship' at Hogwarts. She always kept an eye on me, not because she'd realized who I was, simply because she hadn't approved of my methods dealing with students. Wearing her usual black robe and pointed hat, this woman is sitting now in an armchair, just a mere few steps from me, pointing her wand right between my eyes. Her lips are pressed together in concentration and sheer determination to curse me, should I do anything suspicious. Were my situation not so miserable, I would laugh out loud, so comical she is.
Precious Potter; the reason behind all events. The reason the Dark Lord will reward his most faithful - most precisely his only faithful - servant beyond any imagination now that he's returned from non-existence. I close my eyes as I recall the events, 13 long years ago.
That night, on Halloween's eve, the Dark Lord set out, as he said, to prevent a prophecy from ever coming true. He wouldn't share anything with us and those, who were lucky enough to have known him as close as I had, might recall that the Dark Lord could be very persuasive when it came down to carrying his own will through. So he set out but never returned. Hours later owls started to fly in with the news that the Potters were found dead and beside the body of Lily Potter the lifeless body of the Dark Lord was discovered. Oh yes, that was a shock for all of us, I can't deny it. People started to flee: abroad, underground, leaving the sinking boat like hordes of stinking rats; sneaky Lucius Malfoy, who could dive in a lava lake and emerge unharmed and impeccably good-looking, later would testify he was acting under the Imperius curse; those stupid Crabbe and Goyle brats; greasy-haired Snape; Karkaroff, the imbecile, selling us for 30 silver pieces in order to save his pitiful existence. All fled. Only four of us, Bellatrix, the Lestrange brothers and myself had stayed faithful to the Dark Lord and I'm immensely proud I had.
We were refusing to believe the rumours and were searching high and low for any facts, anything, which would bring us closer to solve this mystery and find the Dark Lord. Bella went completely insane. We closed on the Longbottoms and had tortured them for hours, days for any information they might have had in vain. Slowly, we were forced to accept the fact; no sooner the realization had come down to us, we were captured and trialled. My precious father sent me to Azkaban for life and the mob voted for it and cheered while I was carted off to rot slowly away between those mouldy stone walls.
Were it not for my mother, I would be lying in an unnamed, unsigned grave somewhere by now. She knew she was dying, the poor soul, but she had managed to convince my father to take pity on me and, as endlessly as he'd loved her, he listened to her. We took Polyjuice Potion and switched bodies and I returned home with my father. I was placed under the Imperius curse and shielded from the outside world. But he underestimated me and my powers. I learned, just like Potter, to resist the Imperius curse and I used my one and only chance to break free from my father at the Quidditch World Cup. When I saw those bastards, my former allies playing their childish tricks on the Muggles, my blood boiled. Oh, how I wanted them all to suffer; while they were living as free men, socializing, having dinners, parties, holding balls in their mansions I had been despairing in my long years of imprisonment. Oh, how I laughed when I pointed the wand I'd stolen into the dark sky and invoked the Dark Mark and saw those rats fleeing again, trampling each other in panic.
Then my father found me and imprisoned me again, but my Master came to rescue me. I was immensely proud when he acknowledged I'd served him well and he told me he'd had big plans for me. I was flattered that he accepted my plan and that I alone was able to help him regain his previous powers. I knew I would be royally rewarded for my faith.
So my master plan had worked out. I came to Hogwarts and helped Potter through the three tasks of the Triwizard (or should I say, after my useful little intervention, Quadwizard?) Tournament. I'm proud beyond limits that I'd managed to defy one of the greatest Legilimens on Earth, Albus Dumbledore, during the whole school year and that not one of the staff, not even those who had known Moody for decades, had figured out that Moody wasn't Moody at all.
There was one single moment my plan could have gone wrong, terribly and irreversibly wrong: the moment my precious father showed up at Hogwarts. He was the only person to know who I really was so I had to do something before he could talk to anyone. When he signed the parchment sentencing me to life-long imprisonment in Azkaban he knew bloody well he had just signed my death sentence, yet he had never shown any sign of remorse or mercy ever since. Unlike him, I was merciful. His death was clean and painless, unlike the 12 long, miserable years I had spent among those walls.
Tonight, when I saw Potter return with the Portkey, I knew in an instant my plan had worked out. I was overwhelmed with pride and joy again. I was so curious to hear from him what had happened at the graveyard at Little Hangleton that I forgot about all precautions. The real Moody wouldn't have taken Potter away from Dumbledore, but I had. I was so eager to question him, to hear from his mouth what I had hoped to hear, that the Dark Lord had arisen again and he had punished all those who'd abandoned him, that Dumbledore took suspicion.
My blood was boiling again when Potter told me the Dark Lord had forgiven the scum that had betrayed him, those cowards who hadn't been willing to sacrifice themselves for him like I had. I could not believe my ears when the boy told me the Dark Lord had been merciful to the spineless snails who managed to stay out of Azkaban, while I was slowly rotting away there. But I knew the Dark Lord would reward me beyond any measure if I had finished the job he couldn't and killed Potter, his worst enemy, the reason behind his 13 years of misery and bare existence.
I can hear steps outside in the corridor. McGonagall rises from her armchair and turns towards the door. Suddenly I feel an icy chill and a sudden wave of despair runs through my veins. I know this feeling too damned well; I could never ever mistake it for anything else. I have had enough chances to feel it, enough for my whole life. A Dementor is outside, in the corridor, and according to the voices I can hear at least two people. The Foe Glass is covered with a thin layer of ice as the temperature in the room cools down; our breath escapes our mouths in the form of small clouds. The lights go out in the room but McGonagall lights her wand. In the feeble wandlight I see her face is frightened and now, for the first time during the evening, I am scared.
The door is unlocked and it sweeps open. Indeed, there are two men - one of them I recognize instantly as Cornelius Fudge, the Minister - and a Dementor entering the room. McGonagall stands up, trying to protest, but the other man simply pushes her aside. My heart skips several beats.
I have been proud all my life of serving my Master so well. But now, so it seems, came the time to pay for my pride. I'm frightened and close my eyes.
The Dementor sweeps closer. My heart is throbbing in my chest, beating in a devilish, fierce rhythm. I can smell the putrid stench of rotting flesh and I throw up with bile. Two glistening, decaying hands are protruding from under the cloak. The hands throw off the hood from the Dementor's head. I can't make out the features on the Dementor's greyish, decomposing face; my glance is drawn to its lipless, round mouth. Suddenly the creature draws a sharp breath and sucks in - so it seems - all air in the dark room. White fog is blinding me. I desperately try to hang on to my happy memories: that wonderful night the Dark Lord found me worthy of the Dark Mark; the last kiss of my dear mother when we said goodbye to each other after trading places. My efforts are in vain. The Dementor is ruthless. It's holding me in an iron grip with its clammy, bony hands as it sucks my sanity out of me.
Things are losing their names, words are losing their mea...