It is impossible to drown in the waters around Azkaban.
Die, yes—it is certainly possible to freeze to death, or to be swept far out to sea by the current, or battered to death on the rocks—but not to simply drown, though I'm sure someone's done it, at some point.
We are drawn to the impossible, moths to the flame, but unlike the moths, we get too close to the light of the truly unconquerable and catch fire...
...burning...
...burning...
...dying.
The water, at first, is freezing cold, and I cling to a rock, waiting for my muscles to relax enough for me to move. Finally they do, however, and I start swimming, if only because my other choice is to return to the island.
It's strange. Of all the times I've wished for death, now is perhaps the closest I've ever been to it, and yet now I want it the least.
Nothing to do but die or keep swimming, and so I swim...
...and swim...
...and swim.
I wish I knew where I was going.
AaBbCc
It's been dark for hours now, feels like forever, almost. In the distance, I can hear the sound of waves crashing.
Land? Or just more rocks?
I hope for the former, and settle for the latter.
But land it is; up ahead, not 100 feet in front of me, there are rocks from which I can distinguish a larger landmass.
And as I draw closer, I realise I know this place.
Avalon.
I spent some months here during Auror's Training, and it, like Hogwarts, is one of those places I would know instantly even if I was blind and deaf. Some places just get to you like that, I guess.
But where once the island was alive with the voices of youth and the wisdom of age, now it is dark and silent.
Despair...decay...death.
All three I know. This place has been infected by Azkaban, as though the nearest isle is a virus that spreads, turning everything to Darkness.
As I pull myself up onto the shore, I recognise the Watch-house in the distance, empty and decrepit. The docks nearby are rotting, and there is the shimmer of wards in the opposite direction. Feeling my hope die, I draw myself up to them slowly. They are strong, too strong for me to break quickly, and wandless, and as exhausted as I am. Strong enough to support my weight, and I lean up against them.
They were not meant to harm those who entered.
Simply to keep everyone out.
A glass wall, forever impenetrable, that stands between me and...
...What? What, exactly, had I been hoping for?
I had known from the moment I arrived that Avalon was deserted—it lies far too close to Azkaban for it to be otherwise. It would have been removed from the Floo Network, there would be no food here, and any buildings would have been at the very least locked and warded, if not stripped down entirely. Even had I been able to get in and find a functioning Apparation Point, I have no wand, and am in no state to Apparate anyways.
But I'd had to hope, and so I was disappointed.
I am a fool.
Ah well. At least the shadow of the wards provides a little shelter.
I fall asleep against them, wet, cold, and exhausted.
A drop of rain across my nose jolts me awake, and I cup my hands together to try and catch some.
It's not a lot, but it will do. I drink it down, perhaps too hastily, and am almost instantly ill.
Stupid, you should know better.
I wasn't meant to survive like this.
Wizards weren't meant to survive like this.
Even more so than Muggles, we are the creatures and slaves of luxury. Most anything we may need is but a few mutterings and a wave of the wand away. Even the least of our number are capable of lighting a fire or cooking a simple meal or creating light from darkness. A wizard without a wand, in most cases, is helpless, no better than a Muggle, and certainly incapable of surviving very long on his own...
...On my own.
Especially if he's hurt.
The simple thought of it reawakens the pain in my leg, and I tear off a strip of my pants to bind it with. I doubt it will last very long, and neither will it do much good, but if it may help, then I will most certainly try it.
It's not like I've got many other options.
The Beginning