Last Time: Harry reveals that he feels nothing over Lucius' death. Not remorse, nor pleasure, but nothing at all. He gives an interview with a Daily Prophet reporter, sparing no detail. Peter Pettigrew sees the interview and begins making plans to break into Azkaban Prison to break someone out.

Book 2: Pestilence

Chapter 21

All over Magical Britain, hundreds of newspapers were sent out to be delivered. By Nine A.M. almost everyone that subscribed to the Daily Prophet had read the front page article, written by one Stanley Goodfried. By Ten A.M., people were already talking and whispering, at least one of the newspapers huddled in their group.

And all over Magical Britain, people either vilified or defended Harry James Potter.

A mild mannered barkeep by the name of Tom re-read his copy of the article while he wiped at his bar with a clean rag. He glanced up to the crowd that had gathered and split into several groups. Already he could hear the whispers.

"Can we trust him?"

"Is he going Dark?"

"Who's going to protect us from Potter?"

"I'll stand behind his banner."

"About time someone stood up and did something."

Now Tom believed himself to be a good man, a good man with thick skin. He had heard every sob story from all sorts of drunks, begging for booze to make the pain go away. He had to develop thick skin. But he also had heard all sorts of sob stories from people just asking for anything, a glass of water to help them on their way, a piece of bread. It was these sorts of people that Tom tried to help.

Even if some of the beggars were lying, they weren't begging for booze or money and that meant something to Tom.

And as a good man, he folded his copy of the Prophet up and looked up. "All of you folks should be ashamed of yourselves." He said loud and clearly. He spoke a little slower, making sure his words were able to get through the minds of the fools already drinking. "And if any of you bad mouth that young Lad again, you can go find another damned inn that will sell you drinks before noon. That Lad hasn't done anythin' wrong as far as I'm concerned."

He was angry. They were talking about Harry Potter like he was some sort of Dark Lord or a deity to be followed.

"I have seen a lot of people come and go through my inn." Tom angrily wiped at the bar counter. "Been at this job a long, long time. Survived through Grindelwald, survived through the Muggle Blitz just outside my doors, survived when You-Know-Who… No… V-V…Volde- Voldemort!" He roared the name out in anger. He heard a lot of gasps and shrieks. 'Voldemort!" He spat again. "I survived Voldemort."

Tom looked over the people who were staring at him. Not a single gaze looked elsewhere. "I remember a boy by the name of Tom Riddle comin' through that door." He pointed at the door to Muggle London. "A silver tongued devil, he thought he could fool me with flatterin' words but his eyes… cold as ice. So full of rage and hate, I remember that boy before he became the monster that was Voldemort." Again shrieks and gasps. "I'm tired of livin' in fear, tired of bein' looked down on cause my mum was a Muggle. I'm damned proud of Mum. She ain't never said a bad thin' about anyone, and she died of old age with a smile on her face in the bed she shared with my Pa for damned near sixty years.

"I watched James Potter spill out of that Fireplace, covered in ash and soot." Tom pointed at the fire place where a low flame flickered. "All excited and rambunctious, you'd have thought someone told that boy he was gonna be learnin' from Merlin himself. And I watched as his Pa came strollin' out, a smile on his face at the innocence that James had.

"I watched Lily Evans come through that door, nippin' at the robes of Minerva," He pointed at the door again. "Meek and shy as can be, that Lass was a pure and good soul. I remember sittin' three hours later with her, talkin' about things like etiquette and tradition. She wasn't some Muggleborn lookin' to come in and change thin's cause she didn't like em. She was lookin' to learn, and learn she would so she could fix thin's cause they needed fixed not some misplaced sense of justice."

Tom took a moment to lick his lips. "And you know what? I loved every time both those kids and more came through my Inn to go to the Alley. Pure, innocent, that didn't know what war was like. They didn't know what it was to live in fear. I had hope for the future, hope things would change for the better. Already there had been whispers and murmurs about Voldemort. You hear a lot as a bartender, and I hear more than most."

Tom squared up his shoulders, looking over the crowd that hung to his every word. "And then, just last year, I saw that young Lad you people are vilifyin' walk through that door where so many had come before him. He didn't say much, and he held himself with all the dignity and pride you'd expect someone of his stature to hold himself to. He holds himself to a higher standard than the rest of us do. But what he did say spoke to me, what he did say cut me to my soul. We failed, as a whole, with that Lad. It's not my place to say what happened to that Lad, and I'll be damned before I do say what happened. I doubt he even knows I figured out what he was talkin' about.

"And like his mum before him, Harry came to me about etiquette and tradition so that he wouldn't be insultin' anyone while he looked to fix our world. Politics and business are a Potter's bread and butter, and damned if that young Lad ain't thrivin'. Malfoy thought he could intimidate and threaten that young Lad, no that young man? The he deserved what he got. If Harry don't feel nothin' about it, that's not our problem. But don't any of you go vilifyin' that young man for what he did, for defendin' the audience from the likes of a mad man.

"I spoke of bein' tired of livin' in fear, tired of bein' looked down on, of seein' hope at the younger generation comin' through my Inn. It shames me, seein' that young man comin' through. A burden as heavy as any on his shoulders. It shames me seein' other war orphans comin' through, a flicker of somethin' older than they deserve in their eyes. It shames me knowin' that our society has failed as a whole.

"And if Voldemort does come back, with a mass of followers again?" Tom tapped the folded newspaper. "I say let him come. I didn't get no NEWTS, but damned if I don't know a few spells to throw at him and his followers. I ain't livin' in fear no more."

With his piece said, Tom went back to wiping down the bar top.

-Scene Break-

Albus Dumbledore entered his office and quickly locked the door. As soon as he started to see the contents of the article, he had excused himself from breakfast and made his way to his office so that he could better read it and think upon what the contents were.

As much as he loved the students, he knew they could be quite loud, even when there was a strong majority missing from them for the Winter Holidays.

And so, he took the time to read the article properly. He couldn't believe how… frank Harry had been with the reporter. He was thankful to see that Harry had kept Ms. Bones' involvement in opening the Chamber a secret.

He frowned a bit more as he saw the words regarding Voldemort's Horcruxes. Harry had destroyed five of the things. Then that meant there were anywhere from no more to three more. Dumbledore bit his lower lip thinking a moment on what he knew.

He was not one hundred percent certain if Harry was a Horcrux or not. With Harry possibly being Death, there was a chance that the Horcrux was already destroyed. Dumbledore just honestly didn't have enough information, and he doubted Harry would let him scan the scar upon his forehead.

He might let Madam Pomfrey, but then Dumbledore would need to explain things to her, something he desperately wanted to avoid. She'd be likely to flay him alive. And the thought process of hoping the Wards around Privet Drive would purge the Soul Fragment would not be enough to save him from her wrath.

Then there was the thought that Voldemort had planned on using Harry's death to make his final Horcrux, which would then mean, if Harry was a Horcrux, that Voldemort didn't have any more, other than Harry and his own Soul fragment. But if Voldemort had already made his final Horcrux, then they would need to find that and destroy it before they could defeat Voldemort once and for all.

Dumbledore pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a frustrated sigh. How he missed the days of being a simple Professor. Even as a Headmaster he hadn't just gotten to be a Headmaster. But, the burden was placed on his shoulders and he would carry it as far as his body could take it before he needed to pass it down to another.

He just hoped he could carry it to the end.

And if Voldemort did have another Horcrux, then he would likely send it into hiding with the worst sort of curses and traps that the deranged mind could come up with. At least once he had a body or a follower to carry out his will.

It meant now more than ever they were on a time clock and Dumbledore needed to figure out what the last Horcrux could have been.

He doubted that Voldemort would make another one once he got his body back, not so casually after the others were rather publically announced to be destroyed. Perhaps he could ask the Goblins of Gringotts if they could help him with determining if there was a Horcrux in Harry's scar.

Doubtful, but it might be worth a shot.

He used his hand to stroke his beard, thinking more and more about the precarious predicament that the past few days had put him into. His rather… controlling… nature was showing through. He found that no longer being the Chief Warlock or the Supreme Mugwump had him at a serious disadvantage when it came to information. True, he had quite willingly stepped down, but he never realized just how much information both posts had given him.

Even still, he was determined to not need the information either post gave him.

Dumbledore knew he would at least speak with Harry, and try to see if he couldn't get Harry to see just how wrong it was to have killed Lucius. Dumbledore never got along with the man, nor did he believe for an instant that the other man was innocent of anything, but that didn't mean he deserved to be cut down like that.

Surely there was another spell that was just as fast or faster that would have kept Lucius from casting the lethal spell. And Dumbledore was sure that there was one that would have been non-lethal.

He wanted Harry to regret the killing. He needed Harry to regret the killing. If the Prophecy regarding Harry was true, and Dumbledore had no reason to believe it wasn't, then Harry would need a power that 'He knows not' and Dumbledore firmly believed it to be Love. Harry needed to be capable of compassion in order to begin to feel Love.

Dumbledore hoped that Harry wasn't as emotionally deadened as he feared him to be. Not that Dumbledore could blame him if he was, he was well aware of what sort of Hell he had subjected Harry to now.

Dumbledore stroked his beard as he looked over the article a bit more. Perhaps he should also talk to Harry about so casually saying things in an interview, or accepting such an interview? He then decided against it. Not only would Harry become suspicious, but Harry would have to learn the ins and outs of politics on his own. Though, if Dumbledore was willing to admit, Harry was quite adept at it already, if a bit brash and blunt about it.

Harry would be a force to be recognized in the political realm if he kept it up.

Dumbledore sighed a moment. He felt so alienated from Harry and he didn't even know where to begin to make up ground. If Harry was Death, the only time Harry seemed to actually speak with Dumbledore was when he was in full regalia. It was funny, the only time Harry didn't seem to have a mask was when he had a mask on.

Dumbledore leaned back into his chair, thinking of Death's offer with Arianna. He had brought it up with Aberforth, and he still hadn't gotten a response back. But time was slowly running out, and they would need to have an answer before the first of the New Year.

So many things to think about and not enough information or answers.

He thrummed his fingers on his desk. He thought of the bond between Harry and Flitwick and wondered what it was that allowed them to have such. He glanced around his office, grand and full of so many scholarly things. It was his comfort zone.

Perhaps that was it. Every time he had tried to speak with Harry, it had been in a confrontation of Dumbledore's making. He followed him to the Mirror, followed him down to the main Ward Stone.

Perhaps… just perhaps… Dumbledore thought of it. Perhaps he should go to Harry's comfort zone, where Harry had power and knew what things were.

He needed to know just how bad things were, and he needed to know just how to begin to get in Harry's good graces.

No doubt talking about the need to feel compassion would put a damper on that, but Dumbledore still felt like it was his responsibility to try.

He sighed a moment and gathered his ink and quill to write,

-Scene Break-

Harry's lungs burned in agony, and his muscles ached. His body fought to recover from the beating he had taken. Brutal, fast, without mercy, he had been laid out on his back with his wand spinning away from him a dozen times already. He had passed out twice, and viciously awoken.

No matter how he dodged, no matter how he moved… he just couldn't move fast enough.

The source of Harry's agony?

The angry, diminutive form of one Filius Flitwick, pacing in Harry's practice room within his manor.

Harry didn't know what came over his Professor. But the man had been unrelentingly brutal. Spell after spell, chain after chain. Harry didn't have the time to think, only react, and even then it wasn't enough.

He rasped out for air and rolled himself onto his hands and knees. He grabbed his wand and dragged it over to him. Sweat dripped down onto the hard floors and he rolled his eyes up to look at Flitwick. Not even a fold or crease of cloth out of place, Flitwick looked every bit the Master Duelist, complete with a pair of dragon hide gloves.

Harry looked to the angry bronze colored eyes. The second Harry begun to rise, he'd be assaulted by his professor and dueling trainer. Viciously and brutally, just like the last twelve times. Why? Why was Flitwick so angry? Harry didn't understand, and Flitwick wasn't giving him time to think.

Nor was he giving any hints. He had barely spoken a word since his arrival at Potter Manor.

Harry's body begged him to stay down, to admit defeat. But he couldn't. Not until he understood what this was about. His magic swirled. His reserves had barely dipped, but with the pain he was in he couldn't concentrate enough for any wandless magic.

Dust had attempted to help, but Flitwick had put the bird in a cage and charmed it to actually zap his familiar whenever Dust tried to get free.

Harry growled and forced his booted foot flat on the ground. He pushed himself up shakily. He stumbled back a little, breathing heavily. He raised his wand.

But Flitwick was already going through a chain.

Harry was hit with spells he couldn't recognize. Some he could recognize based on being hit by them, but most of them he had no idea. Flitwick finished with a lightning spell that blasted Harry back. He couldn't stop the muscle spasms from ripping through his body but he forced himself to remain standing, gritting his teeth as he did so.

Flitwick said something in the Goblin Tongue, that while Harry understood it, he didn't understand it. The Shadow Cowl could only make him hear the words, not understand their meanings. "Boom, boom, little spark, set fire to the mountain!" Flitwick's Goblin spell blasted Harry off his feet.

He coughed for air, wheezing. He could feel the heat of the impact still and his wand was out of his hand. His body smoked and gave little spasms. He rolled over and coughed up vomit, but ended up falling face first into it. He slapped his hand forward and dragged himself forward. His vision was blurry and he tried to force himself up.

He fell, his chin bouncing off the hard floor.

Booted feet moved forward, and Harry looked up at the angry visage of Flitwick. "When you have realized my ire, Mister Potter, I will expect a six foot essay from you about your folly. Good day." Flitwick began to walk out, and the adrenaline stopped surging to Harry's body.

He blacked out.

Harry didn't know when he awoke, or if he woke, but the next time he could see, he looked to the brown leather boots in front of him. His gaze slowly panned up to see the form of Adrian Potter, standing there with a slight look of disappointment on his face.

"You screwed up Harry." Adrian said, crossing his arms across his chest, despite the armor on his chest.

"You're dead." Harry said slowly.

Adrian's boot came out and rolled Harry onto his back. "Yeah, didn't stop you from bringing me back, did it?"

"What do you want Adrian?" Harry rasped out. He still hurt from the duel.

"Your teacher's a good man, and you've learned a lot from him. But you still screwed up big time, didn't you kid? Worse, you don't even know how you screwed up. Can't fix it if you don't know how you screwed up."

"Why are you here Adrian? Must you keep haunting my memories of when I failed one of my own family members?" Harry asked.

"Am I here? Or am I manifestation of the guilt you have because I died again? Or it something else?"

"Enough of the games Adrian!" Harry managed out. "You keep saying I screwed up, but you won't say how!"

Adrian said nothing for a while before he looked around. "Think about what your teacher did Harry. Thirteen times over, think about what he just did to you, and then compare it to your duel just the other day. You're a smart kid, you can figure it out."

Harry didn't know how any of that was related. But Harry stopped and tried, tried to think and understand what Adrian was talking about. Harry's head pounded and the aches in his body were distracting.

"What did that monster we fought do?" Adrian prompted. "What did it do against us instead of just outright killing you? Even you know that it could have done so in a heartbeat. Apply that to your duel the other day, apply it to what your teacher just did."

Harry remembered that day clearly. Dream or not, he would never forget the day he battled against the force that was Mephistopheles. It was the first time he had been outclassed in every which way possible, but still managed to drag out a victory.

Even he knew he won based on luck.

And months later, he was still no closer to figuring out how he had won. Soul Magic was near impossible to study, most records of ancient Soul Magic being destroyed. The closest to Soul Magic was an Unbreakable Oath.

"It toyed with me." Harry said slowly.

It was so self-assured of victory that it toyed with Harry long enough that they could weaken it and in the end kill it.

"And you toyed with Lucius Malfoy like a cat does a mouse. So self-confident, so sure of your own abilities to be able to handle anything he could throw your way, that you toyed with him. At any time, you could have destroyed him and beat him down so badly that his reputation would have never recovered." Adrian said.

Harry stayed laying on his back. Adrian was right. He was no better than the force that was Mephistopheles. Harry had gotten cocky, arrogant. It was… truthfully… his fault that Lucius was dead. He pushed the man to that brink of madness, and then pulled the trigger. By what right did he claim the duty of Judge, Jury, and Executioner? And he dared to call himself Death, The Pale Rider of the Apocalypse?

No… He was just an arrogant child given vast cosmic powers.

His body gave a spasm as he remembered the way Flitwick had handled him. It was like taking a beating in fast forward. Harry didn't have time to think or react, or anything. The second he recognized a spell, he was being hit by another. Flitwick had been brutal and efficient.

Each of the thirteen times Harry had been laid out, he could have been considered beaten.

But against Lucius, Harry kept letting the man get up, get up and try again against the wall that he, Harry Potter, posed.

Adrian Potter squatted next to Harry and Harry was forced to look up at the man. A squire, not even a knight, was what it took to make Harry realize that he had not been in the right when he destroyed Lucius like that.

"You spat on everything your teacher has taught you. And while you haven't had another Potter to look to, you spat on what our family believes in." Adrian's words cut Harry to the soul. "You, Harry, should have held yourself to a higher standard than simply toying with Lucius Malfoy. And then you have the gall to claim you felt nothing, nothing in his death."

Adrian stood up. "You've been looking at the Abyss too long Harry." He turned and began to walk away.

Harry's eyes snapped open and the ache in his chest returned twice fold. Had it been a dream? Had it all been in his head? He grit his teeth and forced himself to sit up, wincing as he did so. Everything felt like it was on the verge of breaking.

He looked down at his hands. He was responsible for Lucius' death, for better or for worse. He unleashed the spell, regardless of the intention.

Harry rolled onto his hands and knees. "Damn it!" He shouted, swearing loudly. He never swore, he always felt like it showed a lack of intelligence. There were better words than that.

He punched the hard flooring. Pain lanced up Harry's arm. He punched again. "Damn it!" He roared out, pounding his knuckles into the hard flooring. He had toyed with the man, he was the reason that Lucius was dead. He pushed Lucius that far.

Slime the man may have been, but he had still been alive! A life that was now snuffed out and shuffled off to the after life because of Harry! He kept punching the ground. "DAMN IT!" Tears streamed down his face.

He put innocents at risk because of his own ego! What gave him the right to decide who lived and who died like that?!

He punched one last time, his fist glowing with sickly green energy as his magic build. He cracked the ground and there was a sharp crack from his hand. But Harry didn't notice. Tears dripped from his face down onto the ground, he spat on Flitwick's teachings. The man had never said anything about finishing a battle as quickly as possible, but it didn't matter. Harry had spat on the man's teachings.

He spat on his family's legacy.

Something in Harry seemed to wane and break, like a dam bursting open. A flood of emotions surged through Harry, emotions he didn't know how to handle. Monster, failure, unloved, unwanted, he destroyed everything he touched. It was a cascade of darker thoughts, thoughts Harry had unknowingly suppressed.

He roared out and unleashed his magic in a wave. The floor cracked under him, the walls cracked and plaster crumbled from them. Training instruments shattered and broke and even the lights above him cracked.

And for the first time in a very long, long time…. Harry cried.

-Scene Break-

Towards the upper part of the North Sea stood a fortress built impossibly upon an island. Hail lanced at the fortress, chunks of ice bouncing off the stone. It was close to the Arctic for a reason, deterring would be escapees. This was Azkaban, plummeted in the cold and the wet, it was a prison for the most horrible of Magical Britain's citizens.

No one, officially, had escaped from Azkaban. Most inmates went mad within a week of being there. The cold, the despair, the exposure to the elements. Many died there, unable to combat the harshness of the prison.

Originally, the creature denizens of the island, the Dementors, had been the only Prison Guards of the entire island. They were cheaper. They didn't need paid after all. And they weakened the prisoners, sucking the happiness from them. They flocked in droves, with over three scores of Dementors calling the prison home.

Over the years though, various Ministers had thought to include human guards until they were eventually put in place. Between their wand and creature comforts such as coats and warm beds, the guards had it infinitely more bearable than the inmates. Bearable, but not liked. Each guard was expected to know how to perform a Patronus, with the head guard of each shift needing to know how to perform a Corporeal Patronus. Chocolate was to be had on every guard at all times to combat the numbingly cold effects of the Dementors.

It was a harsh beat to walk for any Auror, regardless of the hazard pay given.

This prison was not like those in the Muggle World. Inmates weren't given three hot meals and a cot. Even the worst sort of prisons in the Muggle World were better than the cold, lifeless Hell that was Azkaban. The inmates were given seven jumpsuits to last their entire stay at Azkaban, a thread bare blanket was also given, but confiscated in the summer months. Enough to keep the prisoners from outright dying, but not enough to give them any sort of comfort. Meals consisted of a third of a loaf of bread, some cold broth, and a canteen of water. Again, enough to keep the prisoners alive but only so.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

It was only by reminding himself of facts about Azkaban that kept him sane. It was only by remembering his loyalty to the Master that kept him sane. It was only the constant work out he did that kept him sane.

The male form with ragged black hair covering his face went through the push-ups, grunting as he did. He pushed off the cold stone floor with every upward movement, bringing his hands together into a clap before placing them flat on the stone once more. He was lean with chorded muscles.

It was the only way he could find to pass the time during his life sentence. Or at least until his Master came to free all off them.

He heard an insane cackle and pause. "Ickle Warden come to see us degenerates?!" A raspy female voice called out.

The man shook his head. Bellatrix had fallen off the sane wagon a very long time ago. He pushed himself up to his feet and jumped up, grabbing the bars above his head. He grunted as he began to pull himself up, over and over. Despite the blistering cold of the metal, he kept working out. He had to keep his body warm.

After all Dolohov had lost his right toes because of frost bite.

Sure enough, the Warden passed by his cell and he dropped down, looking out at the man and the three Aurors that walked with him. All bundled up in their coats, they looked quite warm. He sure wished he had one of those coats from time to time.

Sharp yellow eyes caught the headline of the Daily Prophet tucked under the Warden's arm and he followed the Warden's steps as he checked on the prisoners, seeing who was alive and who wasn't.

He went to the front of his cell and grabbed the bars, looking out. "Oi, Warden!" He shouted before the man could leave. "That the latest copy of the Prophet in your arms?"

"What's it to you?" The Warden asked.

He stuck his arm out through the cell, holding his hand open. "You wouldn't mind lending it to me to read, would you?"

The warden of Azkaban slowly walked back and looked into his cell, yellow eyes meeting brown.

"Go ahead, knock yourself out." The Warden slapped the newspaper into his outstretched hand and he slowly drew it back into the cage.

He knew he only got it because he acted as a model prisoner, never acting out, never shouting, never begging or pleading. Other inmates would have had their arm broken against the bars. He knew what he did, he was as guilty of it as Bellatrix was of torturing the Longbottoms to insanity.

He took the newspaper and moved back to the pile of straw the inmates got as their bedding. He laid down on it, even though he knew it would do nothing against the cold or the hardness of the stone. He snapped the newspaper open and began to read.

"Ol' Lucy bit the dust then huh?" He said amused as he began to read the interview that Potter had given.

"So that's how the Master had done it…" He said pleased. Horcruxes… he was always curious as to how the Master survived. Of course, many had written the Master off as dead, but he had seen the first signs of his Master's survival those long years ago.

Had he not been caught, his Master would have risen back a long, long time ago.

"Well, it's just a matter of time." And that was all he had in the world. Time.

-CHAPTER END-

A/N: No, the prisoner at the end is not, I repeat, NOT an OC. He is an actual character from Harry Potter, an actual servant of Voldemort that I have decided I'm going to take some artistic creativity with.

But thus, the dominos begin to fall.