Harry opened his crusty eyes and was immediately aware of the itch crawling on his hands and chest. He lifted his boney hand making the dried blood flake and shift feeling like ants moving across his thin skin. The ground beneath him was uneven stone, dark, and cold, a smokey blue light filling the space around him. A small tap protruded from the wall to his right, bent at an odd angle and dripping, making tiny puddles on the floor. The room was not large at all, similar, he thought, to the size of the Gryffindor common room, with a large empty slab in the middle of the room, a large hole leading down. There was another empty slab in the ceiling, the same rectangular shape and Harry stared into its darkness, unsure what it's purpose was. He lifted his head further, sitting up, the itch growing stronger. The coarse beard on his face was mattered and reeked of rot, the same with his dank hair draping over his face.
A lanky figure, hunched and skeletal, caught his eye with movement, swaying back and forth, rocking on the cot across from him, on the other side of the hole in the middle of the room. He shuffled around the edge, slowly moving towards the figure, in the blue light it seemed more wraith-like than human but Harry felt he had seen worse, he was not afraid.
He moved closer until he was at the edge of the cot and raised up on his haunches. The figure looked as disheveled as he felt, skin yellowed and pulled too tight across bones. His red hair was wild and patchy, large sections ripped from the scalp, scabbing covered his face.
"Ron," Harry muttered, leaning forward, "Ron," he repeated, reaching out his hand to grab his shoulder and halt the other man's obsessive rocking.
Ron paused and recognition bloomed, his face twitched with movement like a half squashed beetle. He scrambled back, hitting the wall trying to get away. His cracked lips split and bled as he opened his mouth wide and Harry reeled back when he saw the shredded stump of what used to be his tongue, twisting and frothing trying to scream.
Harry was the one who screamed, and the black void clouded his senses once more.
-0-
He awakened a second time on the stone floor, this time keeping his distance from Ron still rocking on his cot. He shuffled over to his own side of the room, and noticed the same dripping tap, and the same blue light with no source point. On the last wall in the room was carved the number forty eight and Harry stared at it, willing it to explain its purpose. There was a new sound he recognised this time, something familiar and almost comforting. The clatter of glassware, dishes, plates being lifted and put down again, the hum of food being shared and eaten. Harry looked up to find the source of the noise and saw the blank hole in the ceiling was now filled with a large stone slab, perfectly fitted into the space, a thin line of black separating the platform from the sides.
Seconds passed and the stone slab started descending down, the two people above scrambling off it to land back on their platform. Harry eyed the slower person and called out incoherent, jumbled sounds trying to get their attention, but no one replied.
The large rectangular platform landed in front of him and Ron leapt from the cot, crawling through shards of broken glass and upturned trays trying to find any scrap of food left. There were dozens of bowls, dregs of liquid staining their sides, crumbs scattered and half chewed bite sized pieces of meat hidden through the fray. What once must have been a banquet to put a Hogwarts dinner to shame was now ruined carnage.
Harry watched as Ron hunted through, finding what little he could and holding the pieces in his mouth with his hands, replacing the guide of his tongue.
Harry realised that this was their food source and gingerly lifted his hand to grab half a bruised apple balancing on its side. He cradled it to his chest, brushing the glass shards off it, creating tiny rips in his fingertips that begin to ooze and leak into the dried blood crusting his fingers.
The slab moved again, this time down to the level below, and Harry leaned over the edge seeing two more figures begin to pilfer through just as Ron had moments before. Their mouths bled as they chewed and licked at the glass remnants, trying to find any bit of food left.
His hands began to shake, holding the apple tighter and tighter until it split and mush ran down his hand onto his threadbare sleeves. The room became sweltering hot, his glasses fogging and sweat leaking down his neck.
In an instant he is flat on his back, his protruding spine slammed into the stone and sending shocks of ache through his limbs. Ron was growling and hissing, scratching at him trying to get the apple, his weight pushing him down as he knees his arm to make him loosen his grip.
Harry could barely breathe from the intense heat and the weight of Ron on top of him, he yelped and let go of the apple, watching through a haze as Ron picked it up and threw it into the dark space where the slab had been.
The heat vanished, as quickly as it had started, the air returned to cool and damp. Ron shuffled back to his cot, and turned his back to Harry, hunching his shoulders and moving in a way that Harry knew he was crying.
Harry heaved in the cold air, and made for the cot on the other side of the room. He shivered at the drastic change of temperature and stared at the number forty eight on the wall.
For two days he stares at the number forty eight.
On the third day the dance starts again, this time Ron licks the slab itself to get the spilled juices of meat, running his fingers through his mouth trying to get every last drop he can.
Harry watched the scene from the edge of the hole as it moved at least twelve more levels down away from forty eight, before the platform receded into darkness. Each level's inhabitants below them, becoming more and more desperate to find whatever leftovers they can from the levels above.
He thought this must be punishment, he knew they must have lost the war, and he wondered when he would die from this.
-0-
A flash of acid green.
"By returning, you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer families are torn apart. If that seems to you a worthy goal, then we say goodbye for the present."
Laying at Voldemort's feet at the front of Hogwarts.
Neville screaming.
A curse hitting him, paralysing him, ending the duel.
Voldemort standing over him, a macabre smile on his face.
Harry jolted and twisted through his sleep, the images leaking before him, varied and disjointed.
The portkey station at Azkaban was flooded with the new arrivals, chained and marched through the gates to the towering fortress in the middle of the island.
Harry sees Neville shuffling between the masses, his face disfigured and skin melted from the burns in battle.
Endless lines of familiar and unfamiliar faces surround him, no protests or wails of pain, just the clink and grinding of metal against metal as the shackles shift on the bodies of what is left of the light.
Harry and Ron are on level 23.
"Ron, pass that roast over," Harry quickly gestures to the steaming roast beef and vegetables, whilst adding some salad to the small plate in front of him.
Ron passes them over, working on his own plate of rations.
"Oi!" Called a voice from below, "Don't you buggers take all the good stuff now!"
"Don't worry mate, roast beef today, you'll get your fill," Harry called back to the two Aurors on the platform below.
The rationing system was a collective endeavor, and everyone was working together to make sure the food was shared. Those at the top with the fresh banquet
of food, filtered it down to the rest, only taking what they needed as the monolithic platform descended to each level. It was estimated that there were around 125 levels, so whilst it had been difficult to coordinate, they were doing what they could.
They had hope.
-0-
Harry cleans himself, as best he can from the frigid cold water streaming out of the tap, the itch lingers and the blood still stains him, impossible to fully wash away. He thinks of other things, like the days he has been on level forty eight, counts the cracks in the stone walls, listens to the moans of Ron and his ceaseless rocking. It is something to focus on, something to judge, but he is still cognizant of the blood stains on his skin. He thinks too often about which level they will be on the next cycle after the thirty days on this one. He remembers that's how it works, one month per level, in no particular order, or so he thinks.
The food platform comes every three days on this level, there was just enough to stop starvation but never enough to feel full. Harry had been through this before, trained himself since childhood to handle hunger like this. It is not going to defeat him, he can do this, he will survive.
Two days later Ron stared at him for a handful of seconds, silently crying, the tears tracking through the dirt on his face.
It was a new look to judge.
He looked at Harry, stared really, and kept staring, taking tiny steps forward until he was at the edge of the hole in the center of the room where the platform, their life force, travels through. Ron didn't need to speak to tell Harry what he was about to do, Harry knew and just sat there, staring back, accepting the despair flickering with hatred directed at him from his best friend's gaze. Ron ground his teeth, gave one last look of loathing and then stepped into the hole. His body cracking and bouncing against the edge of the lower levels as he fell lower and lower until the sounds
stopped completely.
Harry hoped he at least died after the first blow to his head as he fell.
He slept and waited for the next food platform.
-0-
The room is filled with yellow gas clouds on the thirtieth day of each rotation, they do not know what level they are going to next until they wake up from the induced coma the yellow gas forces upon them.
This time they are on 226.
Ron was wide eyed, gesturing to the number carved onto the wall. He paled and his bottom lip started to shake.
"Harry, we were wrong, the rations, we haven't been—"
"I know! I know, okay!" Harry took his glasses off and soothed his fingers along his nose, "We have to start the chain of communication again, stick to the plan, get the people above knowing what's going on."
"But, Harry," Ron's voice was shaky, and far too high pitched, "why wouldn't we know before? The rotation changes every time? Why haven't the people below told anyone when they are on the higher levels?"
"I don't know! We'll find out, something must've gone wrong and they changed the rotation or something, maybe the Death Eaters saw what we were doing. I don't know!"
Ron kept quiet and turned to the tap drinking handfuls of water. They hadn't seen a Death Eater the entire time they'd been in this altered Azkaban system, and he was sure it'd been at least a year now.
Harry marched in straight lines around the platform's chasm trying to think of a plan; he had called up to the level above trying to talk to anyone there but no one replied. The system had started doing things to people so he put it down to that and tried below, no reply either.
Nine days passed on level 226 before he heard anything from the people above.
A chorus of "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," was drifting down to them and Ron immediately recognized the voice.
"Lavender?" Ron called up. Harry had assumed she had died in the battle from her wounds from Greyback.
"Lav, it's Ron! I'm here! Can you hear me?" He shouted, looking up into the hole about six meters above their heads.
Lavender started repeating her mantra louder and louder, he voice breaking as she did so. Harry realised why and ran to his cot, turning it over and snapping the wooden supports to use as a weapon, screaming for Ron to do the same.
Ron clicked and followed suit as the cracking of bones and howling started, the person trapped above with Lavender yelling through what sounded like the padding of his mattress.
It was difficult to remember what the weaknesses of a werewolf were, let alone a starving one. Harry and Ron stood, watching and waiting as the sounds of grinding bone and wet torn flesh filtered down to them below. They knew it was unlikely the werewolf would be satiated by one kill and the odds were it would jump down before leaping up.
Ron nodded to Harry to get in the opposite corner on his side of the hole, both of them holding the wooden stakes they had ripped from the bottom of the cots. Ron started winding the thin sheet around his forearms twisting it to form a rope and layering it up his arm as high as it could go, Harry copying his movements.
The mashing and slick of meat and bones being ground down seemed endless. Intermittent growling and slurping followed a tear or a sharp break, and the metallic stench was saturating the air. Harry and Ron had been waiting, exhausted and malnourished, on their last tether, waiting for the fight that was about to occur.
Harry was known for his Seeker reflexes and felt sure of this ability, but holding a state of hyper vigilance for nearly an hour made him slow to react and he hit his head hard against the wall as the werewolf leapt from above and attacked him first.
Ron yelled out and ran over, attacking it from behind while Harry held the wooden stake between its jaws trying to slide down the wall to get around its legs and hit it from the back as well. Ron had changed tactics and whilst Harry had its jaw occupied, he slammed the wood again and again against its paw, breaking the bones and making it unable to use its claws.
The werewolf howled and screamed tilting its head upwards, it's neck bulging with the force of it.
Ron made guttural, exhausted yelps, putting all his strength into shoving the wood into the side of the werewolf's jugular, ripping the thinner skin there and jolting the wood up into the jaw and out the side of its open mouth.
Harry was barely conscious when the full weight of the dead werewolf slipped down and rolled toward the hole, a claw catching on his prison garb and hurtling him towards the edge as well. The leg of his trousers ripped and Ron landed on top of him, his weight halting his slide with the werewolf and they both watched as it tumbled off the edge.
"At least they'll have dinner down there now," Ron mused, eyeing the trail of blood that was left on the stone.
Harry was quiet and semi conscious himself, but he too wasn't taking his eyes off the trail of blood.
It'd been 9 days since they had eaten, Harry could feel the burn every night of his body digesting his own muscles, the only energy left to take from his body to keep his organs functioning. The burn is unlike anything he had experienced in his starvation days before, the cramps unceasing and grinding like hammering nails through sinew into bone.
Ron didn't say anything, neither did he, as they did what they needed to do and licked the stone clean.
-0-
On day 15 they heard the sound of the platform moving slowly down towards their level, it skipped the level above them, somehow aware that no one living was left.
Harry sat on his cot, back unnaturally straight and poised. He remembered a smaller space, more known to him, where he used to do the same.
Sometimes he would tilt his face up, moving it back and forth to catch the light seeping through the stairs, making it reflect off his glasses. Other times he would face the small door and play the same game with the grate that filtered through the hum of life outside the door. More than anything he would remember the sweet, hot air that managed to carry itself, just enough, so that he could almost taste it at times, wishing he was closer to the food being cooked.
He had never been this hungry in his life as he watched the descent of the platform.
Hermione and Draco appeared standing in the middle of the only source of food they had. A sea of crockery debris surrounded them, broken and splintered, but very clean. In the center, covered in a glass cloche was a single untouched portion of beef and vegetables. They stood back to back protecting it and holding out wooden bars toward them both.
"Ron, Harry, listen to me. I know you're hungry, but you have to listen to me," Harry could tell Hermione was scared but he had also heard that tone before and recognised a well rehearsed lecture when we saw one.
"This isn't a meal, this is a message, the most
important message we will ever give, that we are strong, we are united, and we will not destroy one another like they think we will. There's 333 levels, Harry, Ron, we are so close, so close! This message means everything, it is hope, we are here to give everyone hope," Hermione reached back and laced her fingers through Draco's who looked half mad and ready to pounce on them at a moment's notice.
Harry remembered seeing him at the final battle, close to Hermione's side since they left the Room Of Requirement. He had thought something was up between them and pretty much had it confirmed when Draco had thrown his wand to him to fight Voldemort and returned to her again.
They had obviously paired up in Azkaban as well.
"There's 333 levels?" Ron whispered, horrified at just how fucked they were.
"Yes, Ron," Hermione nodded slowly, softening her tone now, " we've seen," she paused and Draco squeezed her hand, " we've seen what happens down there Ron, we haven't been able to get to the bottom level yet, but we're close, you have to believe we are close! We can do this! We can give everyone hope, show them we can't be broken, we can and we
will find a way out."
Harry thought it seemed Hermione was speaking to him through a wall of rushing water, her words were slow and garbled; he didn't care what she was saying.
There was food.
He wanted to listen to Hermione, he really did, but there was food in front of him, untouched food, and when you are starving you cannot look away, ignore it, not see it, and pretend.
He needed that food, not wanted, needed, and he would fight to get it.
Draco seemed to recognise that decision before Hermione did and he pushed her back to charge into Ron who had made a play for the food himself. They wrestled to the ground with a hard thump, kicking and disturbing the glass scattered on the platform.
Hermione twisted her body and rose to aid Draco when Harry cinched his arms around her knees flipping her down with surprising strength, a shard of glass wedging itself into her Achilles' tendon and snapping it. Hermione screamed in agony distracting Draco, who was pummelling Ron's sides trying to get his taller body off his legs. Hermione kept screaming as her blood seeped out, the liquid warm and sticky on Harry's arms.
Ron finally found purchase on Draco and flung him in the middle of the platform, destroying the protected meal and sending chunks of glass straight through Draco's torso and into his lungs. The blood bubbles foamed and burst out of his lips; Ron, not knowing what to do, twisted Draco's head, snapping his neck and leaving his eyes open and glassy.
Hermione's pained scream changed to heart ache and she tried to crawl away from Harry back to Draco, but the platform started to move once more.
Ron rolled off the platform, unable to stand, and gave a brief glance in Harry's direction. He looked at Ron for a moment, not really seeing him. There was too much noise, he couldn't think. The noise had to stop. There was something soft and wriggling in his arms, it was warm, but too loud.
He saw an arm reach for a piece of a shattered plate. It looked thin and bony and had long nails at the tips of the fingers.
That arm could help him stop the noise.
He watched the arm raise up and come down again, it could move, it could work for him. He shredded the throat, the cheeks, the eyes, popping them one by one, the blood flooding around the mutilated lump he had encircled.
Harry closed his eyes and let the arm chart its own course. He didn't open them when he heard the muted rip of flesh, he didn't open them when he heard the slurping or the chewing that seemed to last too long like there was a struggle to dominate through the toughness.
He didn't open them when he heard the ripping of clothing and more cuts, endless cuts being made. He stayed blind to it, and he tried to pretend it wasn't real, that none of this was, and that she had never been there at all.
They had 15 days left, and every day when Harry would eat again, Ron never looked, never made eye contact or said a single word. Harry would watch him drink from the tap until he heaved and then tore the hair from his head, rolling it into little balls to swallow and fill up space in his empty stomach. He didn't look down or look up.
He drank his water, he ate his hair and he ignored him.
The darkened scabs covering his face and head were picked as well, and Harry would count them, watching Ron slowly consume himself, sometimes wondering if he would go a step further or not.
-0-
The last day on 223 finally arrived and Ron twisted slightly on his cot.
Harry didn't take his eyes off him.
Harry's hair was long and thin, muddied with dried viscera and blood, clinging in clumps and forming valleys of knots all over his head. His beard was matted in the same way, the dried blood giving it a dark red tint highlighted by his wide open green eyes. His body was small, skeletal, the prison clothes like sacks hanging onto hooks rather than limbs. But he was not weak, not yet. It was physical control that he still possessed in droves; he willed his body and it obeyed.
Right now he was completely motionless, too alert. Inhumanly still.
He was watching Ron, who was weaker now, more shell and crust, dissolving piece by piece the more he ripped away from himself. But Harry saw something fierce and sure in his eyes. He had to move first, Ron was still taller, no matter how patchy he had become. Ron would move, he would claim Harry and chip away at him too, taking little by little.
Everyone always took from Harry.
Ron had noticed the fine wisps of yellow gas filtering in, just as Harry did and bolted from his cot, straight for the hole in the room. Harry's limbs were ready, quicker, and he shoved him back, pinning him to the ground with his forearm against his throat. He held up a glass shard he had kept from the platform and started slowly hacking off Ron's tongue, locking his jaw open with a fist to make it more accessible.
"Don't speak of it," he whispered to Ron, gritting his teeth, "say goodbye for the present."