Disclaimer: In case it is not already clear, simply posting my stories here should make it clear. How much I do not own Harry Potter.
Warnings: Dementors, Bad Memories, Madness, Bad Omake
Harry Potter woke up in pain.
It was not the first time, and given his history it would not be the last; but having this happen barely a few months after the last time, and without any quidditch at any point only emphasized the fact.
But he persevered.
His right arm seemed a bit off. And his head was all but murdering him. It was then that the smell hit him, that he knew for sure. Something was wrong. He opened his eyes to darkness. Was it night? No he wasn't outside, air was too stale for that.
And in even the darkest nights you saw the stars or clouds.
The floor was stone though, a rough grating surface that cut into his skin. The stale feeling in the air intensified and was suddenly replaced by a biting cold. It was an all too familiar feeling. In an instant all his lethargy, all his tiredness was gone. His hand whipped out and he cried out
"EXPECTO PATRONEM!"
But no comforting light appeared, no Patronus. And it was then that he felt terror settle into his bones. He blanched, for he realized that he had no wand. Dementors, no wand and a stone room was an all too ominous recipe. The iron bars that were even now blurring in his sight confirmed it.
He was now in Azkaban.
Like a flashback, he was suddenly aware of all the little details that had been missed till now. There was the howling of the wind as it passed through ancient battlements, the faint and distant screeches and screams of long maddened prisoners. Even the way his body shivered in the freezing cold was now something he was far too aware of. He didn't like it. He was not supposed to be here. Even if he was found guilty, he was supposed to have his wand snapped, not be arrested! Why was this happening to him? Was this because he couldn't save Cedric? Was it because of Voldemort? Was it even because of, Merlin forbid...the Dursleys? No. Clarity of thought came swiftly. Half remembered memories came crawling back to him.
It was Fudge.
But even as his thoughts coalesced into something coherent, a Dementor approached his cell. A guttural scream began to loosen his lips.
"Not Harry!"
"Wands out you reckon?"
" She won't wake"
"WAND!"
And he not so blissfully passed out.
Wakefulness came like ice water dumped on his head.
He took a moment to reorient himself as he remembered just what it was that Dementors usually did. He cursed. He didn't know how long he was passed out. He didn't know how long he was going to be here. He didn't even know what he could do. All he could do was hunker down and try to salvage whatever memories he could. Sirius may have survived it, but he was an animagus and innocent and he still came out missing half his sanity.
Xxx
Prison changes a man. Harry wondered if that was said with him in mind. But then, the originator of that saying could not have known about the depressing soul sucking creatures that took such perverse amusement in staying near his cell.
It was not the first time that he could think clearly, after he realized that he was trapped in this place. Time had definitely passed. His skin was bleached and pale. His lips cracked and scabbed. His throat would not let him scream if he wanted to. Truly, Harry was in a pitiable state.
Dementors came and went with annoying irregularity. There was no actual window in this cell, just an odd, ancient air vent. There was no way to tell the time. Years could have passed. How could one be sure? Meals were few and as irregular as the Dementors themselves. It always appeared when he was unconscious, probably because a Dementor delivered it. It was always a grey sludge of some kind. But then, he had long known that when you are truly starving, even the occasional skittering cockroach begins to look appetizing. While the Dursleys somehow avoided pushing him to that point, here his lament was that there were no insects. He could use the flavor.
He looked at his waste bucket, the only piece of magic he had actually seen in here. It irregularly vanished his bodily wastes, always letting it fester first. Harry occasionally took the time to muse that he didn't have much waste to bother with. There was not enough food, and the only water he knew was near the right wall. It dripped from the roof into a hole in the floor. Drinking involved lying down under the drip and leaving his mouth open. It tasted horrible.
Perhaps worse were the memories. Harry did not have much in the way of happy memories. And the Dementors had gleefully pulled out each one. Was this what Sirius had to go through? He could not remember too much of Hogwarts. Not in this place where happiness went to die. He licked his cracked lips with a dry tongue for the umpteenth time, a wasted action, but one he did none the less. He wondered if Sirius had done this. He wondered if Barty Crouch Jr. has done it. But he did not wonder more, as he was interrupted by more Dementors.
Xxx
He was aware again. How many years had gone? He was still alive. Dying, perhaps, but still alive. He wondered what everyone was doing. He wondered what their names were. Everything was getting a bit foggy.
He had two friends didn't he?
And weasels? He was sure he liked weasels for some reason.
But not ferrets. Oh no, you really had to watch out for ferrets.
Why?
Nevermind why! He could hate ferrets even without knowing why!
And there were some twin red weasels.
Why were they twins? Or red?
He had given them… something?
Yes... Sometime before he had been tossed in here. He had been generous. He helped the world laugh.
But laughing was bad. Laughing made the visitors come.
Why was he calling them visitors?
Visitors, now there's a laugh.
And it was all because he got tossed in here.
Yes, tossed in here by a pastry.
Wasn't that right? No?
Tossed in by a treacle tart? He loved treacle tart. The treacle tart obviously couldn't do this to him.
No... A pie? Did a pie do this? Pies were evil and boring. Especially pumpkin pie.
They were head of the pumpkin conspiracy. Why even his school was full of them.
What school was it? Oh, it wasn't important.
Maybe a marshmellow? Looking all white like that. Just like the ferret. And they melted too.
Ha! A bit of heat would melt him right out, yes it would.
Wait, what was he thinking about?
No…It was on the tip of his tongue. If only his brain wasn't so sluggish.
Or was it sludgeish?
He made a funny!
Like that person he was supposed to remember. Now that was hilarious!
Corny sludge? Something like that. Sounds disgusting though. Sludge with corn In it? Really disgusting!
Something like...corny fudge. Yes, that was it, wasn't it?
But why would you put corn in fudge?
His jaw dropped as something clicked into place.
Memory snapped into place like a bombarda hitting stone. (He should know. He'd tried it!)
CORNELIUS FUDGE!
Yes. He was the one who placed him here. He was the one who had decided that Harry was a liar. He had done all of this. Fudge was why he was here, here without Ron and Hermione; here that was not Hogwarts; here where he was not able to do a damn thing other than get his happiness ripped from him daily and become more emaciated with each passing minute.
He had a life! He was Harry James Potter and he was a living human being. He was going to have his vengeance as soon as he could figure it out. He muttered under his breath. And was promptly greeted by a swooping Dementor outside his cell. His eyes rolled backward, his mouth gurgled and he fell backward, almost into a faint. The Dementor gave an experimental inhale, and then passed on.
But even Dementors could not suck out hatred and rage. Because hating? That wasn't a happy thought. And neither was vengeance. Oh no, because all the happy time was gone before Azkaban.
So it was to those emotions that he clung, like a drowning man clutches his last wisp of breath. Yes...vengeance was the answer. He would cling to it and prosper. What had forgiveness done for him? His parents were dead. His friends were vague recollections at this point. The Dursleys were something he would work his way towards. Trusting Dumbledore was what had gotten him here. And FUDGE (!) was at the top of his list. Right above Voldemort.
Harry giggled. The Dementors took no notice.
Xxx
Weeks, months and years. It was a meaningless set of words. There was only awake and unconscious. But Harry cared for none of that. He was counting down the days in his head. Not that he knew if what he was counting were days, or if he was actually counting at all. It was not like he could say with any certainty when he was tossed in here. But then, deriving a dark humor in guessing when he'd snap and turn into an insane psychopath was apparently not the kind of happiness the Dementors could really suck up. He could even resist their aura for short times through sheer willpower. There was something satisfying in seeing a Dementor hesitate when facing his increasingly bloodthirsty grins. It wouldn't be long now. It didn't actually matter how long it took. Once he could stop passing out in the presence of Dementors, he could focus on getting out of here. He may not exactly have a plan now, but then he was never the planning type. He would have to change that of course, but for now, he was focused on getting out of here.
He stared at the Dementor outside his cell with a grin, imagining all the horrible things he could do to it. When he was imagining drowning the foul creature in boiling chocolate, he thought the thing actually shuddered. The very idea was humorous. The feeling was gone instantly, but this time, the Dementor actually retreated. Apparently, there was such a thing as floating away in haste. The feeling of amusement was ripped from him instantly. Even when fleeing the creatures were robbing him of happiness.
Suddenly his mind latched upon something. Even when depriving him of his happiness, he was able to stay awake. He was no longer fainting like he used to. He realized suddenly, in the grip of epiphany, that he was now becoming used to completely lacking happiness. As the next Dementor arrived to sample his emotions, Harry began to laugh, a cracked and hoarse sound lacking any positive emotion whatsoever.
Xxx
Harry was muttering. It was not exactly Harry Potter behavior, but it was Harry Potter, Prisoner of Azkaban behavior. He was simply reliving his life. There is some saying or another about your life flashing before your eyes before you die. But usually you do not get the opportunity to relive your life when you are about to die. No, it is when you are alone and abandoned that you have the time and inclination to go about reliving all the details you can remember of your life till now. So that was what Harry was doing. He was remembering and reminiscing about the little hell hole is life had been till now.
It was cathartic in a way and depressing in another, but it was one thing above all others and that was not boring. Looking through his life through this introspective mood was doing wonders for his ability to not get bored. Now that he was able to tolerate if not ignore the presence of Dementors outside his cell, he now had to find a way of passing the time that did not involve passing out. There was no Ron to play chess. No Oliver to force quidditch practice. No Hermione nagging him to do an essay. There were no twins to distract him with pranks. There was no Malfoy to try and annoy him. It was utterly and mind numbingly boring. Which was maybe why he was ranting hoarsely.
"...and there was that time before second year of course...bloody wankers...bloody riddle...and not to mention bloody Dobby-"
POP!
Harry Potter blinked stupidly at his new companion. His glasses, having long disappeared might have let him get a good look at the face. But the stature and the riot of colors and the way the fuzzy blob in his vision was jumping while chattering like a squirrel on a caffeine high could only mean one thing. Harry thought for a moment and solemnly intoned "Cornelius Fudge".
"Damn…"
Harry was coherent enough to feel disappointed as he managed to confirm that no, simply saying somebody's name did not summon them to his location to allow a suitable vengeance. He turned his attention to the elf who had at one point, almost killed him for the express purpose of saving his life. Not that he moved. Crazy people were like predators. If you moved you could set them off.
"-andDobbyishappythat greatwizardHarryPotter(!)isstillaliveandiscallingDobbyandDobbyisveryverygladtobehelpingthe greatwizardHarryPotter(!)and...and...the great wizard Harry Potter(!) is fainting and not is listening to Dobby anymore…."
There was a long moment where both occupants of the cell stayed motionless.
"Bad Dobby! Bad!"
After hitting the walls with his disproportionate head a few times and poking himself in the eye (twice!) for good measure, Dobby nodded to himself and carefully nudged the youngest prisoner of Azkaban to see if he would wake. Without thinking, he snapped his fingers to get the boy to a more comfortable place. His first impulse was to go to Hogwarts so that was where they appeared, an abandoned classroom.
Dobby stared at the pile of unhealthy wizard and then his fingers in distracted awe.
"Dobby be thinking that saving the great wizard Harry Potter be working lots better this time"
Xxx
Recently escaped prisoner Harry Potter was not very aware when he woke up again. So he took a little while to realize that he was actually not in Azkaban; that this was actual furniture and not a Dementor induced hallucination. The bulbous eyes of the house elf staring into his face helped, because none of his hallucinations had been remotely as horrifying.
There was conversation of course, but with his body in the severely malnourished condition that it was in, it was stilted and severely lacking in coherence. Once Harry managed to get to a semblance of normalcy, the two of them were finally able to communicate, as opposed to having two conversations which made no sense to either of them.
Still, allowing for the insanity of it all, Harry managed to cover his gratitude and Dobby conveyed his state of excitement over saving his... Hero? Idol? Messiah? He really couldn't be sure.
In the end it took eight days for the hyperactive elf to help the boy transform into something above concentration camp victim. But that was okay. Because Dobby was a good elf and this was the great wizard Harry Potter. And Dobby also made the bad wizards think that the great wizard Harry Potter was still in Azkaban. Because Dobby was a good elf and good elves protect the great wizard Harry Potter from bad wizards who threw great wizards into bad prison cells. Dobby wrinkled his nose. Bad prison cells that smell of mold and poop, he added.
Xxx
On the 12th of February, 1996, Harry Potter woke up with a grimace. He felt tired, he felt hollow and he was empty. But he was still alive and he was mildly angry.
He was spent.
His arms took effort to raise and he felt untold years settled upon his frame. But that was okay, because he was alive and free. He was free to wreak havoc and vengeance and then wring the necks of those bastards who had put him in Azkaban to rot.
Of course, vengeance and murder and the fury of a thousand suns was not exactly Gryffindor material.
Or maybe it was? It certainly wasn't Slytherin material. Or Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw for that matter. School felt so long ago, and so utterly childish. There was no point in all those silly games. House points, Quidditch…why had he bothered again? Oh right, because his father was supposedly a model Gryffindor, and he was supposed to be the sequel to that story. Unfortunately he had no swear words to express his feelings about that. His…"sheltered" education was to blame for that.
He reflected on his life with a frown. Prison had managed to make him older. But had it made him wiser? He was by now much more "dark" than Dumbledore approved of. He wondered if this was how Sirius felt when he escaped; all rage and vengeance on real and imagined enemies.
His own options were bleak. He had no wand, he was an escaped criminal and he did not even have an animagus form to hide in. All he had was a loyal and most likely psychotic house elf. But then again, it seemed the sneaky bugger had silently attached himself to him and been quite distraught when he had disappeared. It had somehow explained the poor fellows (now much reduced) unfortunate tendency to add titles to his name. But Dobby had saved him hadn't he? All his so called friends and the adults he was supposed to go to and in the end, help had come from the one part of his life he had considered a nuisance.
He sighed and put his face in his hands. Here he was, sitting in new pajamas next to the overly elaborate bed that Dobby had rustled up. It seemed so pointless. All this magic. It had made him an orphan and put him in Hell on Earth. And now even that wand of his was missing. Magic, was frankly a hassle.
Unfortunately, magic was also very useful.
It could do extraordinary things, and more to the point, his enemies used magic. He chuckled grimly, thinking back to the past, to all the things he had been so enamored of. All this magic. But no, it wasn't actually magic that had soured everything was it? It was the wizarding world. An important distinction. Magic, he was glad of. Wizards, he found himself not so glad of.
"Dobby."
"Yes Harry Potter Sir!"
Excellent. He was not slipping back to his previous manner.
"What would I have to do if I wanted to leave all this behind? Leave the magical world to rot? Where could I go if I wanted to? Someplace they couldn't find me, I think…"
Dobby looked like he was thinking really hard, or constipated before he beamed at the teen.
"Dobby thinks that the best place that Harry Potter Sir nots be found is underwater!"
Harry blinked, confused.
"You mean I'm supposed to live under the Black Lake?"
Dobby shook his head furiously.
"No no! Harry Potter sir is not understanding. Wizarding magic for searching is not working well under the oceans. Dobby heard bad master say that even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could not be finding Atlantis….. because oceans be blocking spells and rituals!"
Harry took long seconds to process this. A small part of his mind grimly pointed out that even when he was trying to forsake the wizarding world, he had automatically thought of Hogwarts and its lake first. However the other part, that was going into wider tangents.
To Wizarding Britain, Voldemort was a Dark Lord. This meant many things according to many different people and books. It meant that he had followers. It meant that he was espousing a cause in direct opposition to the current legal government. It meant that he had the resources to sustain an armed campaign against said government. It also meant that he was capable of outright defeating, or at least matching the most capable combatants on the side of the opposing combat forces. But Voldemort was also special in another way. His followers were purebloods. Consequently, he had access to pureblood wealth and pureblood magic. Meticulously preserved tomes that were hoarded from before men had wands; magics lost in time for being too weak, or too strong; accounts of hundreds of scholars, each a glimpse into the world of magic, and together something more; all of it was acknowledged to be his to peruse and abuse as he willed. For him to be unable to look under the sea….
"Dobby, I think I have a plan"
Xxx
Lucius Malfoy approached his own house with a great deal of trepidation. This was not a good day to be a Malfoy.
In his expensive robes, and with his overly ostentatious cane, he cut a sharp figure. He was the elite of Wizarding society, his robes said. Yet when he reached his sprawling mansion, he immediately exchanged them for the much cheaper and utilitarian Death Eater robes. He was a madman's servant, these robes said.
He walked into the throne room without his mask. In this house, he was without anything that could hide his identity. He was the Dark Lord's servant. There was no escape from that. The moment that the Dark Mark had come back into prominence on his arm, his path was clear, his fate was sealed. And now, after a decade and a half of consolidating his power, becoming a person who was in his own way Dumbledore's only real opponent, he was now reduced to minion and bootlicker. But Lucius did not think such things. For the Dark Lord peers into the minds of his servants as if they were open books.
So Lucius did not think such things. He did not think about how his beautiful mansion had been defiled by this caricature of a monster. He did not think about the tragedy his family would endure in his service. He definitely did not think about how Dumbledore's not too distant and inevitable passing would have made him the only power in Wizarding Britain. And he absolutely did not think about his regret. Because Lucius was a loyal servant of his lord. Lucius Malfoy was a true Death Eater. And only true Death Eaters lived after meeting the Dark Lord.
The room he entered was a simple yet large room. It was dark and barely lit, allowing the Dark Lord to not only hide his face in the shadows, but also because as he was now, the Dark Lord did not need his room to be well lit. The "throne" was a transfigured painting. A Malfoy ancestor who had not been very impressed at the latest Dark Lord. A lesson in manners, he had said.
The walls were bare, but the room still housed a few statues, some of magical creatures, some of famous wizards. The once guest bedroom had been converted into this with just two spells. Lucius had seen the message all too clear. "You are my servant, that I may treat your possessions so. And you are weak, that you cannot challenge my will." At the time, Lucius had only felt fear and awe. The rest of his complex feelings came much, much later.
He thought of none of this of course. He could not get distracted when he was in the presence of the Dark Lord. Yet his movements betrayed no fear no turmoil. His Lord already knew it all. But perhaps a corner of his mind whispered, he did not know of the why, and that was why he still lived.
"Lucius" The voice hissed. "Tell me."
And Lucius spilled his tale. There was no need for instruction here. This was not a conversation, or even an interrogation. This was Lucius Malfoy spilling anything and everything with but the hope that his words would stave off torture or death.
His words were not good news.
Fudge had initially been only too ecstatic to listen to his words about Potter's and Dumbledore's lies. Even the scheme to render Potter helpless through that farce of a trial was inspired and met his approval. However, the so called "meek Minister" had then thoroughly slipped his leash. In a whirlwind of a day, he had turned any plans that anyone had into rubbish. Whatever plan Dumbledore had that involved the boy was undoubtedly in tatters. But worse still was what Fudge had unwittingly accomplished; the Dark Lord's own plans, ones that apparently involved Potter were also now thwarted.
He had also explained the rest of course. Fudge was now completely deluded. Somehow, his unfortunately successful scheme had made him supremely confident. He absolutely refused to move the Potter boy out of Azkaban. Apparently, he had set up some leverage on Dumbledore that involved Potter being in his cell, and Dumbledore rendered incapable of acting against him. As he had proudly crowed, Fudge was now the safest man in the wizarding world. Thus, for now at least, there was no possible way of getting Potter out of Azkaban. And with what had happened, the Dark Lord might even have to avoid freeing his most loyal Death Eaters. Because an attack on Azkaban would also eliminate Potter before he could be taken from the prison.
Even as he spoke, he could feel the Dark Lords thoughts growing darker. He had yet to move a muscle, but there was no doubt that the Dark Lord was displeased. Lucius could only pray that he would be spared that wrath.
Still, the ridiculous sounding words still poured from his mouth. How Fudge had outsmarted Dumbledore….and of all things…the Dark Lord.
And that was the funny thing. After so long proclaiming that Potter was his to kill, Voldemort could not allow anything but his own wand to deal the finishing blow. If for some reason Potter was to die before that, well he couldn't let that happen could it?
But it was a moot point now. Lucius could only pray that he would survive. A hint of a tear gathered in his eyes. For all his power, he had been reduced to this, as powerless as any other victim of the Dark Lord. He wondered where his wife and son were before shelving the thought. In this persons service, he would do his best not to remind his lord about his precious people.
On the other side of the meeting, Voldemort simply seethed. This insect had somehow undone his entire plan for this next year. Manipulating Potter into doing the Dark Lords work would have been the… No, he mentally shook himself. There was no point in the what could have been. What he needed was to adapt to this new reality where Fudge(!) had become inadvertently competent. He would have to move forward without Potter, but he could not allow the boy to be killed either. Only he could do it. And he had to do it. To have Potter continue to live was a stain on his status as a Dark Lord. But to have Potter die by someone else's machinations would be catastrophic. One is known by the quality of his enemies also after all. While recruiting the Potter boy would have been a master stroke, right now, even that was impossible. He could not allow doubt to creep into anyone, the mindless sheep of the wizarding world, or even his own followers. How, he railed silently, had he been backed into a corner by a pustule of an imbecile like Fudge?!
He calmed himself with an effort. There was still ways to salvage this. There always was. The important thing was to both maintain control and give the appearance of it. Insanity was permitted in Dark Lords; failing was not. And losing the plot was not in the picture at all. For now he would wait. And he would see if Lucius could change that imbecile's mind. If not, well he was not unknown to have a plan or two in reserve. He always did.
He was the Dark Lord Voldemort and he would not be denied.
Xxx
Omake, inspired by one particular fic I can't remember the name of. Person who tells me gets a digital cookie. And I still can't write decent omake!
"Dobby, didn't you call me just Harry Potter last time we talked. You don't have to keep adding names or titles to what you call me. Just one was more than enough"
While Harry was of course, thinking of being called the Boy-Who-Lived, Dobby…wasn't.
Dobby looked ecstatic and fascinated at once. As if having an epiphany he spoke softly but purposefully.
"The great wizard Harry Potter is right. Dobby - Dobby is wrong. Harry Potter is just. He is Harry Potter the just."
Later that century, Harry would perform innumerable facepalms whenever this title was brought up.
A/N: long rant ahead, skip it if you like!
Second chapter posted. 10/09/2016
I'm working on chapter 4 now actually. Decided not to leave it a one shot. It'll be fun to see if I can stick to my own half baked schedule. These days I'm spending a lot of time on alternate history forum, all alien space bats and isots that one. Lots of fun ideas there, though I can't actually use them in here. Also just finished a three month internship, going to buckle down for writing that report. Wish me luck!
Story wise, first appearance of Harry, an attempt has been made to characterize his going unhinged and back, not sure how successful that was. No fudge here, but he should make one more appearance later. For Lucy, I've trying for the still a pureblood, but regretting following voldy character. Dobby speaks a lot worse than he does in canon. He's done his own time in cuckoo land.
Anyway, Voldy is the one I'm trying to set up here. We'll be looking into the head of the not so chaotic dark lord for now. I'll be giving him plenty of focus as the villain. I love writing villains though I can never capture their insidiousness. Tom has such potential…I never got to really play with him in OWAK, so I'm taking the opportunity here. Next chapter includes a segment I like to call "inside a dark lord's head"….where I apply logic to some of the things that bugged me about the original books.
I find myself doing short chapters. Its odd. After my mammoth 10k+ word chapters, I feel oddly peeved when I reflect about it. Even if I'm actually working a lot of plot with it.
Next chapter I'm not sure when its getting posted. I'm soon going to be busy writing my report on 3 months in the textile industry! My college will definitely be there to remind me of that fact. Still, I hope to make enough time for this. I've not had a muse for a proper while now, so I'm grabbing on while it lasts.
