We've all seen stories where Harry is wrongfully imprisoned. But what about one where he actually commited a murder?
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Nobody believed I did it. At least, nobody among my friends did. But I did do it. In retrospect, I probably should have killed someone more important. I didn't lodge any appeals, didn't ask for a trial, just let them cart me off to Azkaban. As they took me out of the courtroom, Hermione was practically hanging off me, sobbing, until they dragged her away.
I spent the next two and a half years in Azkaban. Not rotting in Azkaban, as Fudge declared I would after proclaiming me guilty after a ten-minute trial. But really, even if Umbridge WAS his mistress, could you blame me for killing her? Could you? At least with a straight face?
Unfortunately, Fudge didn't see it that way. To him, this was his chance to eliminate one of the two people who were most vocal about Voldemort's return. Not that I really care about old Mouldyshorts now. Two and a half years in the unhappiest place on earth will really change your priorities. Not that the dementors affect me anymore. Within the first week, I turned my cell into a null zone where the dementor's influence wouldn't reach. I also put up a permanent glamour in front of my cell, creating the illusion that I was sitting in the corner, wasting away like a good little inmate.
I've spent the last two and a half years planning and preparing for my escape. The first plan, featuring a drill made from parts I could gather, died a rather fast death the first week. Not only is there no shop available to the prisoners, they don't even give us real food. The inmates are fed by minor nourishment charms cast on each cell. Just enough to keep us alive so we're aware enough to lose our minds to the dementors. So, escape by Muggle means was out. At least getting out of my cell that way.
The second idea has a better chance of success. Partially because they don't know I'm still lucid and healthy, partially because I'm Harry Fucking Potter. I spend my time practicing wandless, nonverbal magic or working out. Or both. If one could see past the layers and layers of glamours and illusions on the front of my cell, they'd see that my clothes are still well-kept, my cell is well-lit and warm, and I've gained significant muscle mass.
Well, after a quick Tempestas spell, I've decided tonight's the night. The tide is out, the winds are down, and the water is a rather balmy four degrees Celsius. With those conditions, I might just survive. Either way, it would be more interesting than sitting here examining my navel day after day.
Might as well get started. Send out a magic pulse to bounce off the dementors and guard…he's on the other side of the cell block. Great. Reach out with a probe of magic, prod the lock into the open position…and the doors open. Even better. Now, just have to actually get off my arse and push open the door.
First time I've been out in this cellblock since they brought me in. But then, nobody who's not innocent ever leaves this prison alive and survives more than two or three months, except for Bellatrix. Something to do with long-term dementor exposure. Poisons your very system, saps your soul from a distance. But then, Bella's a soulless bitch anyway, so she didn't have anything to lose.
And the guard's coming…still coming…he's in range. Push the probe of magic into his spine, squeeze his brain stem…he's down and out. Conscious, but unable to move. Nobody will ever know why he can't move. Too bad none of them watched Young Frankenstein…for a Yank, Mel Brooks ain't half bad. Oh, here come the dementors. I'd feel sorry for them if that wasn't what they wanted.
In my many months of confinement, I practiced Transfiguration enough to be better than McGonagall at it. I managed to turn some dirt in my cell into glass containers for copies of happy memories. In essence, I created memory grenades. Now's the first test. Toss one at a dementor…I think it sensed it coming. It swallowed it.
Well, the blast just knocked me on my ass. Apparently my memories, when confined, pack quite a punch. There's no trace of the dementor. Hell, no trace of anything. The blast cored out a perfect sphere for six feet in any direction. The two inmates who were brought in a couple days ago are making a run for it. Good. They'll suspect the escape was their idea, not the plan of someone who's been here thirty-plus months.
Guess it's time to leave. Toss two more of those memory grenades into the front hall. Wait for the blasts to stop, then stroll in. Crush the front door with a pulse of magic, out into the rain. Bring up the defensive charms I had prepped. Warming charms, drying charms, enough so that the rain actually evaporates and dissipates before it even touches my clothes.
Cast a bubble-head charm on myself and dive into the water, then extend the charm so I'm standing in the bubble. A quick motivation spell and I'm rocketing through the water, just under the surface. Set a general direction for England, and start working on my appearance. After all, everyone knows Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived, but who'll know Patrick Hunter, The Man-Who-Fights-Because-Everyone-Else-Is-A-Sheep? I left enough enchantments and spells on my cell that it'll be months before anyone figures out I'm gone.
Read, Review. Should I continue?