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Nurmengard

Chapter 7: Siege

From within his cell at the top of Nurmengard Prison, Grindelwald grimly watched from his window as a battalion of at least three-hundred Gegentaktik soldiers advanced upon the outer walls of his fortress. Unlike the two Element teams that had acted as a stealthy scouting unit earlier, the army before him had no intentions of either sneaking into Nurmengard nor hiding their presence. In the clearing between the forest and the prison's outer walls, under the light of day, the battalions vanguard unit brazenly marched forward and began viciously attacking the gates. Instead of skillfully cutting a hole in the ward's and slipping in like their predecessors, the vanguard unit chose to simply use brute force to blast their way into the fortress.

Even from the highest floor of the fortress, Grindelwald could see the gates buckle as the Gegentaktik soldiers kept hammering away at the doors. As soon as one spell would hit the gates and dissipate, they would use the residual magic left behind to add to the next spell to increase it's power and continue pounding away. Their tactic's were sound, and it was only a matter of time before Nurmengard's outer gate was breached by the enemy. Grindelwald could only watch silently as the ward's protecting the gate's flared up, causing a shimmering array of light's to appear over the gate's surface as they strained against the onslaught, till with a loud snap the light dissipated and the pillars supporting the door's cracked, allowing the ruined gate to be blasted inward towards the courtyard.

The vanguard unit of the Gegentaktik battalion then began to advance calmly, almost smugly, through the ravaged archway they had just overcome. At the front of the unit marched one man, bold as brass, strutting along like some conquering hero. Grindelwald recognized the man as Lieutenant General Meinhard Schwarz, a man who not only knew he was an absolute prick, but seemed to take pleasure and pride because of it. No one really liked the man, not that he ever seemed to care, but he was a very skilled fighter as well as having numerous connections with his superiors that allowed him to rapidly advance through the Gegentaktik ranks. He seemed to be a ruthless brown-nose, but was undeniably very good at what he did. Grindelwald knew he would enjoy wiping the smug look of the man's face.

Judging by the size of the battalion, the Dark Lord knew he was seriously outnumbered, as neither of his relief unit's had arrived yet. However, Grindelwald seriously doubted any of the Gegentaktik knew exactly what they were getting themselves into, and he would play the situation to his full advantage. While watching the vanguard march forward, Grindelwald calmly raised a communication mirror to his face and coldly uttered, "Aktivieren."

Outside the prison's gates, Gegentaktik soldiers began to quickly drop in spurt's of blood and gore, several in a row as they were shot from the outer walls guard towers, beyond the reach of return-fire. Quickly dispersing to thin-out their number's and make themselves harder to hit, the soldiers began to either attempt to fire back despite the distance or head through the gateway into the prison's outer courtyard. The onslaught of soldiers surging forward quickly blocked up the gateway, but at least the ruined pillars provided some cover from the prison's snipers.

Calmly walking towards one of the walls withing his lavish cell, Grindelwald examined a massive array of shimmering runes that helped control the fortresses defenses. Touching his wand to one of the glowing runes before him, a sinister grin spread across the Dark Lord's face as two of the ten-man teams storming in through the entrance were caught in a dazzling web of interconnected beams of light that had stretched across the massive doorway; The soldiers barely had time to panic before they were quickly cut to pieces by the lethal trap they had fallen into. Those who had made it into the courtyard were not spared as the Dark Lord touched another rune and several intricate patterns began to weave themselves in the ground beneath the soldiers feet, incinerating some while completely shredding others as they activated.

Seeing the looks of shock and horror on the faces of the other soldiers as they witnessed their comrades gruesome demise sent an oddly joyous feeling through Grindelwald, making him feel a little younger then his years usually let him. Did they really think that because their pathetic little advance team had made it through that he had no outer defenses at all? Every good strategist knows that you don't start using you best weapon's till you really have to, or you risk tipping you hand to your enemy. If Schwarz actually believed he could march straight into the territory of a Dark Lord and easily take over then he would be in for a rude awakening, one that Grindelwald would be more then happy to see the Lieutenant General pay for in both despair and blood.


As Harry stalked silently down the dark hallways of Nurmengard he gripped his wand tightly in his right hand, ready for any sudden surprises – at least, he hoped he was ready. Rubbing his aching shoulder with his free left hand, Harry had to concede that he was a mess – Within the space of about three hours, Harry had been beaten, thrown, hexed, cursed, nearly crushed under a collapsing staircase, and almost killed more times then he cared to count. Harry had suffered through all that damage, and he had only managed to descend five floors in the prison, with seven still left to traverse...yay.

Trudging painfully along, the only thing that gave any semblance of comfort to Harry was the amazing camouflage charm he had learned from one of his fallen foes. The charm was literally a life saver, and as long as he kept his mouth shut and moved along quietly Harry figured he could traverse Nurmengard's dangerous hallways without being accosted. Now if Harry could just figure out where the hell he actually was...

Harry would have thought that with the prisons triangular shape, if you just kept going straight you would eventually find a staircase, but the entire facility, from the hallways to the stairwells, seemed like some twisted labyrinth constructed by some demented fool who took joy out of messing with the mind's and patience of others. The hallways would stay straight for a time, with windows on one side looking out, and then they would split in several directions, and all the branching hallways would also have their own windows and additional twists themselves. 'Damn magic', Harry thought sourly, rubbing his forehead as he tried to logically picture how the facility should look based on the inside layout, but could only come up with a tangled spiders web of corridors that seemed to keep branching out randomly instead of the prisons actual shape. He had seen similar expansion charms and hidden rooms in places like Hogwarts and the Burrow, but why must wizards make everything so damn confusing? Unless you knew where you were going, finding the stairs seemed more a case of luck then anything else, and aside from being on the seventh floor, Harry had no clue where he was.

As he continued walking silently along, Harry kept looking around for a stairwell, a direction sign, or even a recognizable feature; hell, even a bathroom sign would have been welcomed by Harry, almost anything but more empty prison cells, locked doors, or looted corpses that were randomly scattered throughout the hallways.

Almost anything, except more Purifiers. As his breath caught in his throat Harry's ears, now attuned to the encompassing silence within the prison, could hear the shuffling of feet ahead of him around a corner, quickly approaching. Glancing around, Harry could only find smooth walls and prison cells in the corridor; Hiding in one of the cells was not an option, as the rapidly approaching footsteps would hear the squeaky groan of the metal grates. Taking a deep breath, Harry pressed himself tightly against the wall, hoping the width of the corridor and his camouflage charm would keep him undetected.

As the two Purifiers turned the corner, Harry kept completely silent and closely watched their eye's to see where they were looking. Neither man was talking, and both seemed to idly sweep the corridor with their eye's, looking for anything unusual. Harry could swear he felt the hairs the back of his neck stand up as the bored eye's of one of the Purifiers swept over him without notice.

As they quickly approached, Harry noticed they were walking closer to the wall he was leaning against instead of the center of the corridor. 'Shit!', Harry thought desperately as the men got closer and closer. He dared not move for fear of being noticed as he was now directly in their field of vision. They were only five steps away now, and Harry began to quietly panic. Four steps – Harry could feel all the muscles in his body tense, ready to fight. Three steps – the cold sweat and drying blood on his body made Harry's skin tingle unpleasantly. Two steps – Harry dared not breath, afraid they would hear the slightest sound coming from him. One step – the rapid beating of his heart pounded like thunder against his eardrums, and Harry faintly wondered how the Purifiers couldn't hear it...

As the two Purifiers came even with Harry, the men were close enough that he could hear the swish of robes as they passed, even feel the gentle breeze they made as they fluttered along past him. One step away, two steps away, three steps away...it wasn't until the men had finally made another turn at the end of the corridor that Harry dared breath again. He took steady, deep breaths, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart as he listened to the Purifier's footsteps slowly fade away.

Once again thankful he had learned the camouflage charm, Harry pushed himself from the wall and started to head in the opposite direction of the Purifiers when a sudden jolt of pain lanced across his forehead. His left arm shot out towards the wall to steady himself as his right came up to clutch at his searing scar. His infamous scar had suddenly and inexplicably awoken in a blinding flash of pain, and Harry felt as if a hot poker was trying to simultaneously force it's way out of his forehead while somehow also burrowing deep into his skull. Harry was forced to press his lips tightly together to prevent any sound from escaping as he tried to wither the expanding rush of pain in his head.

As the pain began to creep outwards from his scar Harry's vision began to distort, Nurmengard's dark hallways blurring in and out of focus. Becoming unsteady, Harry fell to one knee, now clutching his scar with both hands. Harry began to feel the world swirling around him as his vision began to fade in and out. As the pain in his head began to increase, Harry desperately tried to hold off on making any sound. As a rather vicious stab of pain lanced through his scar, Harry toppled sideways on the floor, a pained gurgle finally escaping his parched lips. Struggling to get up, Harry got back on his knees before another powerful stab of pain flashed through him, and for a moment his vision shifted completely to something beyond what was before him in the hallway.

With every pulse of pain, Harry now saw a dark, desolate island, surrounded by chaotic seas and hidden by thick, dark clouds. With every agonizing flash the vision became more detailed, and Harry could now notice a tall, obsidian tower jutting upwards from the bleak, lifeless island before him. As the pain grew increasingly more unbearable more squeaks and gurgles escaped his pained body while his vision of the hallway before him and the desolate island started to overlap each other. Becoming increasingly more disoriented from his spinning head and warped vision, Harry couldn't concentrate on what was happening to him, and the only thought that reverberated through his mind was, 'Don't make a sound!'

It was only as the pain became too much to bear that Harry felt himself getting pulled towards the dark island in his vision, the hallway around him seemingly dissolving into nothingness. With one final, painful tug Harry's body bent backwards at an obscene angle, and he felt as if his soul was being ripped from it's earthly vessel. A horrible shriek of pure agony echoed throughout the hallways of Nurmengard as the pain finally won out against Harry's immense willpower and his body finally surrendered to it's misery.

As Harry felt himself painfully spinning forward towards the dark tower before him and away from his body, he could feel his consciousness begin to fade. Engulfed by the dark vision before him, Harry felt he knew this place, although he had never actually been there himself. There wasn't a magical person alive who hadn't heard of the inescapable fortress before him, guarded by some of the most foul creatures to haunt this world. One final word came to mind as his world faded away, lost as the painful vision finally enveloped him entirely: 'Azkaban...'


The rickety little boat they were on swayed violently to-and-fro amidst the chaotic ocean waves that battered against it. The three men who huddled within the craft were pelted with the churning sea-foam that crested over the bow of their tiny boat and repeatedly drenched them, the frigid waters of the northern seas chilling them to the bone. The storm they now found themselves sailing through was not a natural occurrence – the violent storm was the result of a complex series of charms and ward's cast to hide and isolate the barren island at the center of the spells.

Through the torrential rain they could see it approaching, the barren spit of land that was continuously shroud in magical darkness that would have sent chills up the spine – assuming, of course, that the prison's horrid guard's didn't get to you first. At the center of the small, lifeless island was a massive obsidian tower that stretched upward into the stormy skies, as if the tower itself was trying to escape the dismal isle it was trapped on. Any speck of hope that would have been left to those approaching would have been violently ripped from them and devoured by the swirling black mass near the towers peak, their numbers so large that they almost seemed to be extension of the storm raging around them, a terrible cloud descended to earth to terrorize the towers inhabitants. They were both the keepers and the tormentors of the wretched souls whose depravity earned them a place there - Dementors, the vile, soul sucking wraiths who diligently guarded Azkaban Prison, just so they could fest upon the hapless inmates trapped inside.

As the little dingy finally pulled up to the island, the three men stepped onto the rotted wharf and proceeded towards the prisons looming gates. The large gates were only guarded by one wizard; after all, who in their right mind would try to break into Azkaban? As for those trying to break out, the prisons other guards had proved extremely effective in dealing with them. As the hooded trio approached the lone guard lazily waved towards them. "You have a visitor, Jameson? Who in Merlin's name would want to come visit this God-forsaken hellhole?", the guard asked, his eyes following Jameson, one of the ferrymen between the prison and the distant Mainland, as he quietly walked towards him. As Jameson continued to silently approach, the guard started to become annoyed at being ignored, and with an indignant growl shouted, "Oi! You hear me Jameson! Clean the seawater out of yer' ears, boat-boy, I asked you a..." The guard's indignant shout died out as he got a better look at the man's face before him. Jameson, a usually expressive individual, had a completely blank expression on his face; The mans glassy eyes were even worse, seemingly completely devoid of life, almost as if...

The guard's eye's widened as he started to shout, "INTRU...", before he was violently thrown backwards as a dull bluish lance was shot trough Jameson and then drilled straight through him, leaving a charred gaping hole in his abdomen. The lethal spell continued onward, unimpeded by the two men it had pierced through, before blasting into the prison's large gate, causing the doors to shudder violently, but they managed to hold strong against the attack. With a odd flick of his wrist, the stranger who had killed the two guards shot a bright, hot beam of light at the outer rim of the gate, quickly running it over the door's outer edge's and causing the metal to rapidly turn to a glowing, red-hot molten liquid. With another flick, another lance of bluish-light was sent hurtling towards the gate, this time blasting the doors of their melted hinges, the two massive metal plates still tightly locked together as they smashed against an inner wall with an eerie gong sound, a steep contrast with the blaring prison alarms now ringing throughout the facility.

As the two cloaked men briskly walked through the melted doorway, five more guards rapidly rushed trough one of the passages in the prison's rectangular entrance hall. With a brief flick of his wrist, the first man summoned a wall of fire that barreled towards the guards, instantly incinerating two of them while the remaining three hid behind heavy shielding charms. With a quick upward swish, the last three guards were impaled on massive pillars of rock that formed from the floor they were standing on, their soft flesh offering little resistance to the sharpened obsidian rock as it pierced their bodies.

As the first intruder brought his hand to his mouth and began forming a massive ball of fire, the second was distracted by three more guards coming from another doorway just behind them. The cloaked mans hasty Severing Charm was quickly deflected by one of the advancing guards while the remaining two shot at him with Stunners. Ducking under the spells, the intruder quickly hit one of the guards with a hasty Tripping Jinx while the other was shot at with a Blasting Charm. As the guard shielded against the blowing blast of light, he was knocked backwards over his tripped comrade and fell painfully to the floor. With an exaggerated downward swipe, the cloaked individual sent a massive bolt of lightning crashing downward into the two guards on the floor, killing them instantly. The last guard, undisturbed by the death of his allies, continued to charge at the intruder and got close enough that as the cloaked man moved his wand up to attack he was able to grab the man's left hand, leaving the intruder without any means of defending himself. With a quick swish, the guard was about to kill the intruder when a glistening silver hand flew out of the cloaked mans robes and snapped the guards wand with seemingly no effort, before quickly wrapping itself around the guard's neck. Looking into the intruders hood, the last thing the guard saw was a pair of cold gray eye's staring at him with maliciousness, before his neck was crushed completely, turning the spine and flesh into a blood pulp that left nothing for the head to remain connected to. With blood dripping from his silver limb, the cloaked intruder watched the guards head roll away as the beheaded corpse collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

Slightly further in, the first man had formed a massive ball of fire before him, twisting and writhing as it it were alive. As the man started to make several sharp hissing sounds, the fiery ball began to uncoil with a terrible roar, forming several massive snakes of pure flame that reached up towards the entryway's high ceiling. With a brief wave and a hiss, all but one of the man's fiery creation's went down the different doorways that led into the large chamber that he was currently in, incinerating anything in their path.

As panicked screams began to echo from the different hallways around him and reach a pitch that rivaled the prison's blaring alarms, the two cloaked intruders began to feel a disturbing chill creep over them, like an oppressive wave that threatened to sap all the joy from their world. With a disturbing chuckle, the first man looked towards the blasted entryway, awaiting the true guards of Azkaban to appear. It was only a few seconds before the open doorway seemed to instantly turn black, and all light from the raging storm outside was blocked as the shadows along the great archway seemed to move, spreading outward and deeper into the room, towards the intruders. While the second man began to tremble as the feeling's of hopelessness increased, the first stood tall, seemingly unaffected by the creatures that rapidly surrounded him. It wasn't until one of the shadows moved towards him, taking physical shape and attacking him that the man made a move. With a slight flick of his wrist, the massive serpent of flame behind him slithered forward, striking the shadowy wraith before it could touch it's master, quickly turning it to ash as it screamed in horrible agony. As soon as they saw one of their brethren fell, the shadows seemed to instantly recede back as safe distance away from the flaming serpent, causing the shadowed man's thin lip's to twist in a satisfied smirk; not even the infamous Dementors of Azkaban could withstand Fiendfyre.

As the first intruder focused on the shadowy wraith's before him, he could sense the subtle build up of magical energy behind him, and quickly spun to his left as a vivid Killing Curse streaked past him, the force of the spell distorting the air and causing the intruder's hood to fall back, revealing his face. Pale gray skin covered the completely hairless head, giving the man an almost alien appearance. His otherworldly looks were further enhanced by his lack of a nose, possessing only two narrow slits for nostrils and one long, thin line where the man's lips should have been. Despite all this, it was his eye's that were the most terrifying, being crimson-red with narrow slits for irises, and possessing no other emotion in them besides pure, unfettered hatred and rage. His horrid appearance was oddly appropriate, considering the fact that he was a man known worldwide for both his terrifying strength and ruthless ambitions, and had become perhaps the most infamous Dark Lord to have ever lived - The vile being known as Lord Voldemort.

As Voldemort's evasive turn came to a halt, he held his wand pointing at his attacker – a lone prison guard, leaning against one of the door-frames and suffering from terrible burns over most of his visible body. As the guard fought through his pain and steadied his aim, he caught a look at the intruders now visible face and froze in pure terror, scarcely believing who he had just attacked. As the guard stood frozen in fear, the Dark Lord quickly hurled a Cruciatus Curse at the wounded man, causing him to fall to the floor with an agonizing scream.

As he watched the guard being tortured before him dispassionately, Voldemort didn't fail to notice the wave of Dementor's behind him start to tremble and writhe, becoming excited by the guard's tortured screams. With a smirk he levitated the still screaming guard and threw him before the mass of Dementor's near the prison's entrance, who had instantly stilled. "A gift," the Dark Lord simply said, carefully watching the Dementor's for their response.

Slowly, a shadow began to separate from the teeming mass, solidifying into the iconic appearance of a emaciated wraith covered in a black, ragged cloak. The Dementor slowly floated forward before bending down and, caressing the terrified guard's face as if he were a lover, began to lower it's lip's for a kiss. A horrified speak was the last sound out of the man's mouth as the Dementor sealed it's lip's to the guard's, sucking the soul from the man's tortured body and devouring it. It's meal finished, the Dementor promptly dropped the unresponsive corpse to the floor without a single care, having no further use for the now soulless body. The Dementor then quietly watched the Dark Lord before it, waiting for the man's next move.

A twisted grin spread across Voldemort's face as he witnessed his 'gift' being accepted. "My friend's," the Dark Lord began, waving his left hand in a wide arc towards the Dementor's, "why do you serve such a corrupt group as the Ministry? They restrict your movement's, imprison you here on this desolate isle, and limit your nourishment like the prisoner's they have tasked you to guard. It is time to throw off the yoke of oppression and let your voices be heard! I can offer you sustenance! I can offer you pleasure! I will offer you freedom! Will you join me once again, and take back this world for the chosen?" the Dark Lord finished, his voice echoing through the prison's large entrance-hall.

A resounding shriek was Voldemort's response, and it was the one he wished for. "You have chosen well, my friend's," the Dark Lord said with a twisted smile. "You must all be starved. Perhaps you should have an appetizer of the guard's who once pretended themselves to be your betters. Leave the prisoners and the warden for me." With a casual wave the Dementor's quickly disbanded, some going in through the winding tunnels from the entrance while others chose to go in through the windows from the outside. Either way, the Dementor's were ready for a feast, and they would not be denied after having fasted for so long.

Using what had been leaked to him about the prison's layout from the last war, Voldemort quickly went about locating the warden's quarters, leaving his flaming serpent to guard the entrance while being followed by his hooded accomplice. As he began to pass through the prisoner's section, the inmates quickly sat up and began to rattle their metal cups against their prison's cold steel bars. Amidst all the clanging and cheering, the Dark Lord's wand barely gave a twitch as it quickly blasted off every prison lock that it passed, freeing the ecstatic prisoners that had been contained for so long, all the while he continued searching for one inmate in particular...

Despite the odd scene of joy that had erupted around him on such a desolate isle, Voldemort could feel nothing but the soul-burning rage that had been bubbling just beneath the surface for the past several week's – ever since his failed resurrection ceremony and subsequent disfigurement, all caused by him. Voldemort's hand tightened around his current wand as he fought against his rising anger, not that he could truly feel the wand. During the frantic battle in the graveyard, Voldemort had managed to not only lose both his wand and most of his current followers, but he had also lost both his right arm and leg to the brat's destructive magic. His new resurrected body was still weak, and the injury's he had suffered threatened to unravel the magically conjured flesh that was held together by only a fraction of soul. Lacking in option's, Voldemort immediately ordered his last surviving servant, Wormtail, to gather several powerful artifacts that he had hidden in various locations, items that possessed pieces of his soul locked within them, otherwise known as a Horcrux. Giving the pathetic little man directions on where and how to get to the items, the debilitated Dark Lord used his pilfered wand to fashion himself a replacement arm and leg similar to the one he had hastily crafted for Wormtail, except far more powerful. Carefully etched with glowing emerald runes, the Dark Lord's new silver appendages seemed more like work's of art then the last ditch replacements for his limb's that they were. However, even with his new limb's and the myriad of strength and magic enhancing runes carved into them, they just didn't feel right; his sense of touch felt muted and his center of gravity felt constantly shifted to his right side. And he always felt so damn tired...

Wormtail, using the Dark Lord's information, was able to quickly retrieve a old ring and a glistening locket for his master. Expecting the Dark Lord to be satisfied with his quick progress, Wormtail was not expecting Voldemort to fly into a rage when he discovered the locket was a fake, and that one of his precious soul containers had been destroyed by a former servant. Questioning the fate of his remaining soul-shard's, Voldemort quickly dispatched Wormtail to retrieve the rest, while he kept both the ring and his serpent, Nagini, close to him as they seemed to help stabilize the link between his body and soul a little. It took some time for Wormtail to hunt down the last three Horcruxes even with the Dark Lord's detailed instructions: A diadem hidden within Hogwart's proved to be the easiest for the rat animagus to retrieve, while the Imperious Curse had to be used on one of the Lestrange's last free relatives to retrieve a golden cup from within Gringotts. The final Horcrux, a diary, had been destroyed by the same brat who had crippled his body and ruined his plan's...again.

Voldemort was able to take the four remaining Horcruxes and use their combined power to help stabilize he ravaged body and soul. Much to his consternation, Voldemort had to carefully unravel the powerful spells on both the diadem and cup, reuniting the soul shard's with his own and stabilizing his core in one of the most excruciating processes he could ever remember undertaking. Due to his meticulous work, neither of the precious artifacts were damaged, and the Dark Lord felt more alive then he had in decades. With only two Horcruxes left, Voldemort chose to keep them both close to him at all times, his faithful Nagini never leaving his side and the ring safely secured to his metallic hand.

Suppressing his hateful memories, the Dark Lord continued to stroll through the hallways of Azkaban, unlocking cells as he made his way towards the prison's upper levels. Finally coming to a heavily warded doorway, Voldemort believed he had finally found what he was searching for, and with a quick wave, dismissed his accomplice. "Go and assist the others Wormtail," the Dark Lord hissed, "I will deal with this fool myself."

As Wormtail quickly bowed and began fearfully muttering his acceptance, Voldemort ceased to pay attention to him. Quietly observing the door for a moment, Voldemort quickly slashed his wand and a violet flame impacted with the wards covering the room's entrance, making the door's hinges buckle from the force of the blow. With a second wave the hinges finally gave, causing the ward's to fail and the wooden door to quickly erupt into a violet inferno as it smashed inwards, impacting the far wall of the room and quickly spreading the blaze.

Amidst the eerie purplish light of the flames, Voldemort could see a wand peek out from behind the large oak desk at the far side of the room before the spell was even cast towards him. Using the weight of his metallic limbs, Voldemort allowed his body to tilt to the right, easily evading the Killing Curse that was fired at him, and with a quick jab turned the large oak desk the warden hid behind into a hail of flying splinters.

Howling in pain, the warden fell to the ground, his face and hand's bleeding profusely as his body was turned in to a passive pincushion for the flying debris that had assaulted him. Levitating the bleeding warden from the ground, Voldemort cast a mild Numbing Charm and, with barely suppressed venom in his voice, whispered, "Where is he?"

Struggling to maintain consciousness through his rapid blood-loss, the terrified warden asked, "W-where's who?"

Growling, Voldemort gave a quick twist of his wrist, casting a Banishing Charm on the embedded splinters in the warden, causing the pain to overwhelm the earlier Numbing Charm and making the man shriek in agony. No longer bothering to hide his fury, Voldemort growled, "Where...is...Potter?"

"H-Harry Potter? The murderer?" the warden choked out, tears of pain running down his ravaged face, "the boy was never sent here. He's being held somewhere else. T-that's all I know," the man muttered fearfully, seeing the horrifying glow of madness and rage lighting the Dark Lord's crimson eye's.

Snarling, Voldemort quickly canceled his Numbing Charm, causing the warden's pain to return full-force, and threw the man at the blazing wall, using a Sticking Charm to make him stay there. Ignoring the warden's cries of agony as his body was rapidly engulfed in violet flames, Voldemort felt his anger begin to overwhelm his immense Occlumency barriers, surging through him and causing his magic to flare-up and distort the air around him. Regardless of what the liberated inmates believed, Voldemort would not have come to free them from their captivity so early after his resurrection and risk revealing himself to the world without taking the proper precautions first. The only reason Voldemort had moved up his plans to liberate Azkaban so quickly was because he believed that the British Minister would be here to pick up the boy.

Mashing his teeth, the swirling flames around him seemed to react to the raw magic that the Dark Lord was pumping out in his towering rage, quickly surging into an inferno that engulfed everything in the room aside from him and spreading outward towards the rest of the prison. It was all the brat's fault: the initial loss of his body, the destruction of one of his precious Horcruxes, the failure at his resurrection, the desecration of his flesh, and now having to reveal himself too soon without even benefiting from it...all the fault of one pathetic little child.

The low grow in the back of his throat started to bubble towards the surface, fulled by his anger till it reached the surface in a scream of absolute rage that seemed to echo throughout the dark prison. For one adolescent child to continue to defy him and ruin all of his plans was beyond either reason or forgiveness. The Dark Lord no longer cared for timing or schemes, nor for prophecies or domination. Within the violet maelstrom of magic and flames of Azkaban, Voldemort made a dark vow that surpassed everything else he ever held dear, his scream of rage solidifying his desire within him. Dumbledore and the world could wait till he had settled his grudge - his unending fury would settle for no-less. Only one goal echoed within Voldemort's ravaged heart and mind:

'HARRY POTTER MUST DIE!'