Disclaimer: Nope not mine, just Nina.
Hope you enjoy!
Vicious waves crashed on the solitary building in the middle of a constant raging sea. There wasn't a day, where it didn't look like Poseidon himself had a special vendetta against those trapped inside. Guards eerily floating in their black cloaks, their wicked mouths open showing the dead black flesh of their insides, as if tasting the ice cold air.
Black smoke striked the sky in six lines, hidden by the blackness of night and the sound of the raging water below. They were swift and silent.
The six smoke figures surrounded the building from all sides, sending spell after another, never stopping their movement. Chunks of the building were sent flying as the strikes of colorful spells lighting up the night hit its target. Soon enough, the prisoners crawled out from the building's deep corners.
They watched them as they flew avoiding the black cloaked guards, only touching down to retrieve those they came for. One after another they disapparated.
One lone figure floated still the whole time. Dementors didn't seem interested in approaching him, so intrigued he was, he stopped to see what they would do. They sniffed the air with their mouths, squirmed in their floating spot and never came closer.
An eerie laugh rang through the night and the raging sea.
He couldn't wait to get his hands on that sneaky serpent.
Huffing like a maniac, she stopped to get some air into her lungs. Whoever said it was a good idea to go for a run mid August on an afternoon, in freaking Andalusia.
She sat on the small steps of a house nearby and hid in the shade of its walls, getting her lungs into working order. She pulled herself together after a few minutes and went back to it in a brisk walk this time.
Oh how she wished she was in deep water right about now. She didn't care if it was sea, lake, pond, river, or a simple pool. Alas she was forty minutes by bus from the nearest beach, forty five minutes by car from the nearest lake and way too far from reaching any of those while grounded.
Her mother just loved curfew groundings.
She got to her house in a stupor of sweat and heat, straight to the shower, staying under the cold water till she felt her mind stop it's incessant pounding.
There wasn't much to do. Summer homework was positively terminated. And so here she was, left to stare at her secret notebook of secrets, trying to see if she would get any ideas on how to terminate her other screwups, permanently this time. Sighing loudly she threw herself on her bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to keep positivity alive in her.
The loud annoyed hooting of an owl came through the window and into her room, making her jump out of the bed to go squeeze the big grumpy owl, practically chanting his name.
He really hated it. He was a very british owl apparently, not very accepting of being called Mr. Potato, in the deepest spanish accent her mouth could muster. It sounded so ridiculous, she loved it.
He did like it when she indulged his pride and called him mister. But again it wasn't her fault, he actually looked like Mr. Potato. He was brown and round, with a big beak that looked like a nose, and the most hilarious patch of black plumes under said beak looking like a moustache. He just looked like a stern old Mr. Potato.
She came closer, owl treats ready, lest he snacks on her fingers instead. And rubbed his favourite spot while he snacked. She giggled at his face. Apparently he preferred snacking sternly as well.
She reckoned, it was the motive of his journey that pissed him off so much. It's not like getting a British magical newspaper was something she could do on her home without an inscription, which she didn't bother with. No reason to give any will be corrupt organization her home address where her very clueless muggle mother lived. No sir.
She took the large paper and sat indian style at a touching distance from Mr. Potato.
The little fluffy guy seemed to notice her stillness was unnatural and turned his attention to her.
She went in full panic attack mode. Her heart going a mile a minute, cold sweat running along her back. The words on the front page run through her mind like a banshee's screech.
Azkaban Mass Breakout, Black's suspected involvement.
She didn't know how many times she read the fucking thing hoping it would change, or that her heartbeat would be painful enough to wake her from this nightmare.
But this was no vision, nor flashback nor dream. It was the real life consequences of what she did in Fourth year. She wanted to curl up and die, it was probably the only way she wouldn't fuck anything up. Her vision last year was clear, glimpses that showed her just enough to know, it didn't even last a minute.
One of those glimpses, was a newspaper with an Azkaban Mass Breakout dating next fucking year.
She screamed in frustration scaring her owl, and sending him in a confused frenzy around the room while she catapulted herself to her wardrobe
Pulling out random clothes from her England weather pile, and into a backpack. She put the rest in her trunk, along with her books, and school materials. It took her eighteen minutes, she would have been proud if she wasn't freaking out to high heaven.
Only when everything was packed and shrinked did she realize, she still had to tell her mother, without it sounding like the biggest lie ever. She thanked God her mother was still at work, or she wouldn't be going anywhere.
She sat on the couch, with Mr. Potato flying around her not sure if he should approach the nut job human. The lump in her throat grew by the second and she really wanted to cry her eyes out, just for the sake of a mini pity party.
She wished she hadn't prepared everything so much, so she could have lasted longer packing instead of sitting around wallowing.
Just when she started to get her bearings, another thought popped and the swearing that came after was only protested by Mr. Potato. He flew away one more time annoyed at the girl for screaming so much.
"Nonononono, fuuuuuuck, FUCK"
Snatching the newspaper with a deadly grip, she looked at the names mentioned again, and this time she couldn't handle the tears or the trembling of her limbs.
One of the names was Barty Crouch Jr.