Surprise! Are you guys surprised I updated? I am! My dad got off work early, so I can use the computer. Yay!

Widar: Actually, there is a reason Harry hasn't figured it out yet. I agree that it would make Harry kind of stupid to have not figured it out with such blunt hints, if there wasn't a specific reason. I don't want to give anything away, but I did include a scene in the prologue that sort of told you why Harry isn't noticing any of the clues. Dumbles did something when Harry was little, remember? And as for Harry finding out ASAP, well that can't happen. For one, I already have everything worked out and Harry can't figure it out until other things have already happened. It's also a major plot point, I don't want to rush it. I'm an author, I'm particular about my story, and how I want it to go.

Thank you, honestly, so much to my other reviewers for the positive feedback. Very many laughs and "aaahhh!"s due to you guys! You made me want to update instead of be lazy and watch TV.

warning: some may find content disturbing

I don't own Harry Potter, because if I did, this would be canon :)


Chapter 12: Azkaban

Voldemort turned his still angry gaze to Harry once more. "Follow me." He almost hissed.

He was livid.

He latched onto Harry's upper arm and dragged him from the office, down the corridor, and into his own office.

He threw him down into the chair, his hands grasping Harry's shoulders painfully.

He leaned down and hissed into Harry's ear.

"We're not done."

Harry sat still as a statue, afraid that if he allowed himself to move, he'd shake like a leaf in the wind. Voldemort was still leaning over him, angry crimson eyes burning into his own. In this position, Harry had no trouble seeing how this man had come to power. Through bloodshed and politics. He looked savage. His normally neat black hair was sticking up (which would have been funny in any other situation), his face was pale, every line drawn in anger. His eyes were almost glowing with power, as if his magic was feeding off the anger.

Harry, on the other hand, looked carefully blank.

This angered the Dark Lord. Why didn't the child ever show emotion? Children weren't supposed to be so good at hiding what they were feeling; they were supposed to have it written clearly all over their innocent faces. But Harry wasn't innocent. Voldemort didn't know if he ever had been. He'd grown up in a training camp, basically, a training camp to fight him.

To Harry it would seem perfectly normal for a friend or trusted adult he'd known his whole life to come home injured or not at all. He'd grown up in the no nonsense environment of a war camp. Unlike Britain's naive, innocent, sheltered children.

The Dark Lord was used to those children. When they were taught at a young age to bow at his feet and worship the ground he walked on, if they were lucky enough to see him in person at all. But Harry didn't bow to him; he didn't take his word as law, and he didn't see it as an honor to be near him.

He didn't expect the boy to kneel at his feet, but he wanted respect. But how to get the boy to respect him? The boy that would rather be tortured than do as he's told.

Harry was still staring at him with those big green eyes, Esella's big green eyes. The boy wouldn't be cowed. Here he was, a fifteen year old boy, staring right back into an angry Dark Lord's eyes. It was amazing the boy wasn't in Gryffindor. Though he had contempt for Godric Gryffindor's house, it was not for their bravery. He respected bravery and even admired it. But the Sorting Hat seemed to mistake rashness and stupidity for bravery a lot. Charging into a situation without prior thought isn't brave, it's idiotic.

But he was sure his son would have been a true Gryffindor. He's he made rash decisions, yes, but he's also put other's needs before his own. Voldemort wished he wasn't so selfless. He'd get himself killed. But he was a Slytherin too, so he obviously had some cunning.

Getting back at hand, he had a teenage boy to discipline. Oh, dear God.

"Why do you feel you must provoke me at every opportunity?" he hissed.

Harry decided he wasn't going to answer.

"Answer me, boy!"

Harry's temper flared. "I didn't ask for this situation!"

"You make things worse for yourself. I won't tolerate disrespect."

"I don't give respect to those who don't deserve it," Harry growled back.

"Watch your tongue, boy. Or I'll—"

"Hit me again?" Harry said darkly.

Voldemort hissed furiously and grabbed Harry by the hair and pulled him up. Harry yelped and rose on his own. Voldemort's grip moved to the boy's upper arm and he clamped on, hard enough to bruise.

He dragged Harry over to the fireplace, threw some floo powder into the flames, yelled their destination, and stepped into the flames, dragging a protesting Harry with him.


Harry stumbled out of the fireplace and straight to the floor. The floo always made him feel nauseous. He pressed his forehead against the abnormally cold stone floor. Voldemort stepped gracefully from the fireplace after him, somehow not getting a speck of soot on his robes.

"Are you planning on lying there the whole day? The dementors may think you're a prisoner."

Harry's head darted up. "Dementors? Are we . . ."

"In Azkaban, yes."

Harry was on his feet again instantly, shivering slightly at the strange chill that permeated the room. He looked warily at the Dark Lord.

"Why are we here?"

Voldemort stepped close again. "I'm going to show you exactly what happens to those who don't respect me." He said in a low, cold voice. Harry couldn't help the tremor that raced down his body as his blood ran cold.

The prison was Hell.

The dementors chill kept Harry uncomfortable, stabbing at his soul through clothes and skin alike. The place was absolutely filthy. Grime covered the walls, along with dried blood and other things Harry didn't want to think about. The whole prison seemed to be covered in ice, the salty spray blowing strongly in his face. The prison was on a God-forsaken island made of damp grey stone and sharp black rocks edged the beaches.

But it wasn't the icy spray hitting his face, nor the filth that ran freezing fingers up his spine.

It was the prisoners.

Their cells were small and even filthier than the corridors. Though it would be freezing even without the dementors looming, they wore only as much as decency needed, hanging off their thin, gaunt bodies.

On the bottom levels of the prison, where the low level prisoners and new comers were held. There was screaming and hysterical crying, skeletal hands grabbing at him through the bars, or at his clothes, begging for release and mercy. Some of the hands were bloody, their wrists cut. Harry recoiled violently, his breathing quick and raspy. Despair radiated from the cells on either side of him.

As they ascended through the levels it became worse. The hysterical screams subsided into heartbroken sobbing and then silence. Silence that was heavy and pressed on Harry's chest. He wanted to leave this place. This place of horrible despair and evil. Even criminals didn't deserve this.

The worst were the top levels.

There was no crying here. No screaming. No self-mutilating. Only skeletal bodies and empty eyes. These people had been lost long ago.

Harry stopped at the end of the corridor, peering into a cell with a rather small figure with blond hair and brown eyes. Unlike the others in the level who stared blankly into space, this boy was smiling. His eyes were glazed and empty, but he smiled. He was quietly humming to himself, rocking slowly back and forth on his small cot.

It was hard to be sure, but Harry was. He looked so different, his face almost a yellowish color and his teeth rotted black. Painfully thin. But Harry still recognized him after all those years.

It was Ernie Macmillan.

He'd never really liked Ernie; he'd been a bit arrogant and fancied himself smarter than everyone else. But he had been in many of the same lessons when they were small, as they were the same age. They'd even been paired up a few times.

But one day Ernie took a walk with his mother and never came back.

His mother had accidently strayed from the boundaries of the Camp, Ernie along with her. And they'd been captured. The Camp had been forced to move, and that's when Voldemort's men attacked. His parents had died because of Ernie's mother, though he'd never blamed her.

But Ernie was still alive, here, in Azkaban. And he was utterly insane.

It became too much, even for Harry. He'd known this boy. He'd mourned him.

The temperature seemed to drop several degrees.

Harry couldn't breathe, it was so cold.

And then he heard his mother screaming again. And once more he was in that concrete room next to his sobbing mother and dead father. The scary man raking his eyes over Harry hungrily.

"No . . ." he whimpered. He felt his knees buckle and through a thick fog heard Voldemort asking him what was wrong. Funny, he'd forgotten the man was there at all.

The screaming became louder and he wondered dimly if he was screaming too. His mother was screaming in pain, his father was somehow screaming too, though how Harry didn't know. He was already dead.

Both of them were.

Oh, God. His parents were dead.

His parents were dead . . .

Harry let the darkness take him.

Voldemort watched as Harry's knees buckled.

"Harry? What's wrong?"

And suddenly the dementors converged. They came like demons from the shadows, crowding around his son. Harry began screaming.

Voldemort closed his eyes. He hadn't been able to create a Patronus in years, not since . . .

But Harry was alive. He was alive and healthy and here.

The Dark Lord concentrated on these thoughts, on the joy he'd felt when he'd read the results of the Identification Potion. On Harry as a baby, giggling and calling him "Daddy".

With a small smile he yelled, "Expecto Patronum!"

A silvery snake shot from his wand and toward the dementors who were eagerly congregating around Harry's prone form. The dementors fled in the company of the ethereal snake. It slithered over to Harry, turning back to Voldemort and flicking its tongue at him. Careful to keep the dementors at bay with his Patronus, he knelled next to Harry. The boy had stopped screaming and lost consciousness at some point.

Why had the boy had such a strong reaction to the dementors? What had happened to Harry that left such horrible memories? Why had he been so interested in the prisoner in that cell?

All questions for another time.

Harry needed medical attention . . . and loads of chocolate.


So there is chapter 12. I had a bit of trouble with this chapter, I won't lie. I don't know if that's a realistic example of insane people act, and I wasn't trying to offend anyone! I swear.

Sorry, it's kind of short.

So anyway, review. Expect something this weekend.

I love you all :)

-Ginny