Harry shivered, rubbing his arms with his hands as he was pushed forward by a large man in black robes. He hadn't gathered anything about them, his captors, as their hoods covered their heads entirely. Each held a wand pointed at him as they walked up the long, stone path. He had tried speaking with them as they left the Ministry, but they ignored him. No one had said a word to him, in fact.
However, Harry had given up communicating with the men, he had not given up entirely. His eyes drank in everything they could see, trying to find a weakness, a way out. Despair set in as their steps continued, unabated, and he had found nothing. The walk itself was steep, nearly difficult to continue without reaching out a hand to steady himself on one of the guards. On either side, less than a metre either direction, he could see a sheer drop off. There was nowhere to go except forward and back. Only, the guards would not let him go back. Forward was it.
If he had had a wand, he might have been able to do something more interesting, but Harry did not. That, of course, had been confiscated. He might be able to get one of the men's wands before he found himself bound, falling hard onto the paving stones. One of them might be lax, but three? Not to mention the dozen or so guards they had had back at the dock. And then… well, they were there, too. Summoning enough cheer in this dreary place to hold the eight dementors that had accompanied them on the journey would tax even the most joyful of persons.
The fear Harry felt grew, despite the distance from the dementors behind and from the dementors ahead. The lack of any solution was scary. Whatever the situation he had faced, no matter how dangerous, there had been something he could do. When the Aurors had ambushed Fred and him outside of Hosgmeade, there had been to warning, and they were disarmed before Harry knew anyone was there. The law enforcement group trained in concealment and were excellent at using spells. On an even duel, Harry might have had a chance, but with his wand held loosely and his attention elsewhere…
"It's time," one of the Aurors said. "Will, you won the toss."
"Count on me," the Auror named Will said, a chuckle in his voice.
Harry turned his head to see the other two walking back towards the dock. The third was facing him, wand pointed at Harry's back, steady, unmoving. The man had a pleased grin on his face, but his eyes were daggers on Harry.
"What's going on?" Harry asked.
"Keep moving, scum," Will said, his voice hard.
They walked further, Harry glancing back at the man, periodically. He couldn't understand why the other two had gone. They were stronger together. Was this a traditional thing? Did everyone have a single guard up to the entrance of the prison? Did he get special treatment for some reason?
"You cause a lot of trouble, you know that?" Will said.
Harry didn't reply. What was there to say to a statement like that?
"Speechless?" the man asked. "Fine. I can deal with that. Listen. This is the part of the plan where I'm meant to kill you. Don't take it personally. The Dark Lord wants what he wants. As long as it looks enough like that, I'm good. I had to rig a coin toss to get the opportunity, and trust me, if either of the other two had had the chance, you would find a watery grave, at best."
"What are you-?" Harry began.
"Silence," Will snapped. "There's little time. Some would rather you survived, and I will see that happens, even at my own risk. In a moment, I'm going to need you to react in anger, charging at me as if to take my wand. Or try to take it, if you can. Whatever motivates you to come at me. You're going into the water on the lefthand side. I scouted it beforehand and there are no rocks. I slipped some gillyweed in your pocket, so you should be able to swim deep beneath the water for a half hour or more."
"But, where could I swim to in half an hour?" Harry asked. "The North Sea is huge."
"You'll have to sort that out," Will said. "I can only help you so far. Just stay deep and out of view. Now, attack me!"
Harry wished he had an alternative. If the man was chosen to kill him, he couldn't fake it better than he was. Harry's hand felt on his left pocket, and there was a bulge. Should he trust it was Gillyweed? Would it actually work? He'd read about the stuff in a book, but he'd never seen it used. He had no choice, however.
He charged at the man, roaring in anger - legitimately. The next thing he knew, Harry was flying through the air and smashing hard into the icy waters. He was well submerged by the time he thought to grab the gillyweed. Fingers tangled in his robe as he dug for it, finally grabbing the squishy substance. Without hesitation, he put it in his mouth and did his best to hold his waning breath. Time ticked painfully past. Would it work?
Then, just as Harry's head started to feel heavy, he felt his body change. He was breathing without thinking and his fingers and toes - in his shoes - had grown webbed. Harry reached down and removed his shoes and socks, and began swimming outward, away from where he had fallen. His webbed hands and feet pushed the water much faster than he ever could have alone. The water was cold, though, freezing. His limbs moved, despite the cold, but he wasn't sure how long that might last.
Harry knew little about Azkaban, but what he did know was that the Ministry had chosen it for its location. It lay somewhere in the middle of the North Sea and was nowhere near any major landmass. The books at the school wouldn't give him more than that, and his professors had never wanted to discuss it. The key, though, was that there was literally nowhere he could get to in the time given. If he was lucky, there would be a smaller island near the large one, but then what? With no food, how long could he survive? Had Will just bought him a little time before he starved?
Again, if there was no other island, that left only one place to go. He didn't need the freezing water to shudder at that thought. Just the thought of the dementors made his blood run cold. He kept swimming, though, pushing forward through the inky blackness beneath the waves. Every part of him hurt, feeling the pangs of muscles that never worked this hard.
When he could not stand it any longer, Harry rose, reaching the surface and blinking into the dim light beneath the clouded skies. Waves obscured his immediate view, but turning he could see the tall peak of the prison, Azkaban. It was not too far away. Squinting back he tried to make out the path he had fallen from, but it was too distant. The pier he had left, too, was out of sight. Scanning the coast ahead, Harry looked for anything that might help him. The prison itself was dark, unfriendly. Harry knew that was his last destination. Going there was as good as ceasing to swim.
So, he began swimming back towards where he knew the pier would be. Maybe there had been a ferry or a boat of some kind there. A prison it might be, but there must be a method to arrive that was available for people who did not like to Apparate. Ministers and other important wizards visited here from time to time. With that heartening hope, he swam, trying to keep low in the water, dipping and swimming through the blackness for dozens of strokes at a time only to peek above the waves on occasion. His arms hurt, still, and his legs, but the gillyweed was still working. He could breathe naturally and maintained his speed through the water.
On one stroke, he came above the water and could finally see his goal, a flat and raised space at the end of the long downhill path to the prison. Harry could almost mark the spot he had fallen from on that path, but his eyes swept over the pier. Something did sit on the other side of it, in the water. And he could see no one on the pier, not from this distance, anyway. Then, a wave rolled in front of him and Harry's gaze focused on something closer.
It was… weird. He couldn't quite understand what he was looking at. The thing - whatever it was - looked like a bag or sack, but an odd green that did not quite fit in with the water. Then, he was sure he saw the thing move. It was alive! Harry frowned, and began to swim around it. That was when the thing noticed him. It jerked violently, spinning around and one end pointed at him. A blast of green liquid flew through the intervening space.
Harry dove beneath the waves, swimming fast and hard. He swam out, under the creature, he hoped and onwards. He had gone a dozen strokes before he felt a burning on his left shoulder. He swam on, trying to push himself to his utmost. When he thought it was safe, he rose to the surface again. Harry looked around, but could see no sign of the creature. A glance at his shoulder, though, showed that a tiny dribble of whatever the creature had spat at him had struck his shoulder. Where it had struck, though, the skin burned. He needed someone to look at it. It was certainly some kind of poison. But first, he needed to get away from here.
He turned back to the pier and saw it was not far. Harry swam up and reached the base of the pier, swimming around until he found a ladder. The wood was ancient and in poor shape. The first rung he reached for collapsed under his grip and the second barely held. He struggled, pulling himself upwards and fighting to keep a steady hand and foothold. His breath became ragged as he was in the middle and Harry realised he still had the gillyweed transformation. How long had it been? He couldn't breathe properly, but he didn't want to wait in the water. More of those things could be down there, and his shoulder's burn was growing worse.
Harry tried to steady his breath, staring hard at his fingers on the rung in front of him. Then, in amazement, he took a deep breath. His fingers had reverted to normal, and he could breathe again! Gasping in relief, Harry steadied himself and looked up. The sky was open above up to the grey clouds. He worked his way up the last couple rungs and peeked over the edge of the pier. Empty. Even the dementors that had met them had gone. Easing up a bit more, he took a second look. His luck had held, so far, but he had to be fast.
A boat was connected on the right side of the pier, tied twice, close to Harry and further down. He could see no oars and no sails, so he hoped that it was magically moved in some easy manner. Crouching, he slipped across the wooden planks, coming to the first cleat. The rope was old and looked almost congealed as one mass in its knot. Harry dug at the strands with his fingers, slowly loosening. It was a torturous slowness, and Harry continuously looked around. He was very exposed where he was, but there was nothing he could do about it.
At last, after painful digging, he released the first rope from the cleat, and looked around. To his horror, a line of dementors was flowing down the path towards him. It wasn't one or two, either, there were at least a dozen. He couldn't feel them at this distance, but fear still seized his heart. He fought it off, though, leaping at the other cleat with abandon. He didn't bother crouching now. He stood and tore at the ropes as hard as he could. They quickly began to grow red from the cuts he was creating on his fingers, but Harry could not stop. He dug and twisted the rope, pulling loose pieces out as fast as he could.
When he had tossed the rope into the boat, the dementors were mere metres away, nearly to the end of the path. Harry ran, jumping into the boat and yelling, "Go! Go already. I'm ready to go."
The boat did nothing. Harry ran to the back, looking at the wheel. It was free, but he could see that there was a series of dials and knobs in front of it. It was a Muggle boat? Harry was startled, but relieved. Flitwick had taken Harry out on one while they visited a Muggle friend who lived on a lake years ago. Harry had been very interested in how it worked…
Harry twisted the key - fortunately in place - and pulled back on the throttle when the engine turned over. The boat lurched out into the water, slowly. Harry watched the dementors filling the pier, slowly moving toward him. From this close, he could feel them again, hear horrifying sounds.
"Not Harry! Not Harry! Please-" That was his mother, Harry had assumed.
"No!" Umbridge, of all people, haunting with her last cry.
"… Protect… keep him… protect… keep him…save…" Hermione, most painful of all.
His thoughts grew heavy and dark, weighing down on him as though all the light in the world had been sucked out of it. He could feel cold, worse than that he had felt in the water. He shivered from head to feet, and nearly fell out of his chair.
Then, the boat was out of their reach, shooting across the water at a faster pace. Harry did not look back. He couldn't. He just couldn't bear it. Even never having entered the blasted place, it had brought such horror.
He held onto the wheel, turning west towards the UK, and then felt his left shoulder. The burning continued, but it was less than before. He couldn't tell if that was better or worse. He needed help for it, but first, he needed to get back home. Maybe he could find that spot on the coast where he had left his old wand.
As the boat cruised, he looked through the supplies. There was no edible food, but he did find some blankets that had been packed away neatly. They were dry and warm in the frigid air. Harry blanketed himself in the captain's chair, and kept the boat westward. It took all his concentration to keep an eye on the compass and the horizon. His mind wanted to drift back, process what had happened, but he couldn't, not yet. There would be time for all of that… later.