Jericho Bullwark walked down the dark, dank, corridor. In front of him walked his patronus—a beaver. It cast a silvery light on the walls as he went. Everything about Azkaban was intended to be as miserable as possible—the dark, the damp, the cold, the hard stone floors, the small cells barely bigger than broom cupboards, and, of course, the Dementors. Even with his patronus, the presence of so many of the tall, dark, cloaked, despicable creatures affected him. He could only imagine what it must be like to be here for years.
He glanced into some of the cells as he passed. Pale, wretched, hopeless faces stared back at him. All except for one—a female with wild, tangled black hair who stared insolently back, her mouth turning up in a smile. Azkaban didn't seem to affect her, at least, not as much as it did the others.
There weren't many wizards stationed at Azkaban. It was mostly left to the Dementors with a skeleton crew of Ministry wizards, no more than five at a time, in a revolving shift. Being stationed at Azkaban, no matter how briefly, was the bane of any Ministry of Magic employee. Some even lied about their ability to conjure a patronus merely to avoid it.
It was dull work. All he had to do was patrol the corridors occasionally. There were five other witches and wizards on duty. One sat in the prison's reception—though visitors appeared once in a blue moon, and always announced weeks beforehand, the Ministry still kept somebody manning the desk. The other four patrolled—two inside, two outside. In times past, they had left the patrolling to the Dementors and just wiled away the hours playing cards in the staffroom. Ever since Black had escaped, however, the Ministry had tightened security.
He passed a cell containing the youngest prisoner to ever be sent to Azkaban. A tall boy with short black hair called Theodore Nott. He had used the crucio curse on a fellow student. He was huddled against the wall of his cell, his face buried in his hands. The wizard patrol was the only reprieve that the prisoners got from the Dementors. The patronus drove the beasts back, giving the prisoners a brief respite from their misery. Once Jericho Bullwark was gone however, they would be back, gliding silently past the cells, hovering outside and feeding off the misery and despair within.
Jericho knew he shouldn't feel bad for them. The wizards here were the scum of humanity—Death Eaters, murderers and torturers the lot. But despite their crimes, he couldn't help but feel some compassion, so made it his duty to draw his patrols out as long as possible—give the prisoners a minute or so longer from the Dementors.
There came a scream—cutting through the silence of the prison fortress like a knife before it was suddenly silenced. Screams were not unusual here, many of the prisoners screamed in their sleep. But this was different. It had come from outside.
He flew to the window—merely a square hole in the wall and peered out. Far below he could see a figure, illuminated by the light of the moon. He was tall, thin, bald and pale. He was stood motionless in the courtyard. A cluster of Dementors swooped around him but didn't approach.
Wait—what was that? His gaze shifted up towards the entrance and his heart froze. There was a body. Even from this distance he could recognize the shoulder length, silvery-blonde hair of Danika Nettle—one of the wizards assigned to patrol the outside. There was a Dementor hovering over her.
"Shit …" he raised his wand in the air and cast a spell, triggering the prison's alarm. Immediately, a ghostly wailing filled the air—it came from everywhere at once. A movement at the other end of the fortress, on top of the ramparts caught his eye.
A figure was running wildly—a pelican patronus swooping around his head. Following was a group of three-no—four Dementors.
Jericho felt his heartbeat quicken. The other wizard—he knew it was his friend, Forrest Turner—fell the patronus circled him as the black mass surrounded them. Then, the light was extinguished.
The prisoners sensed something was up. They were yelling, shouting, cheering, jeering, banging on the bars of their cells.
Then, Jericho heard a sharp, rattling breath. They were coming for him, too. Three from one end of the corridor, two from the other.
His patronus charged at the three coming from the North, driving them back. Then, spun around to charge at the two from the South. Jericho had to get out of here. He ran, following after his patronus. It would clear a path, then he could regroup with the others in the main entrance—that was protocol.
As he ran down the narrow corridor, he felt a skeletal hand clutch at his wrist, grabbing it with shocking strength, he almost fell, placing a hand upon the wall to stop himself. He twisted around, his free hand with his wand raised.
It was the witch—Bellatrix Lestrange. The worst of the worst. She had been sentenced here for capturing two Aurors and torturing them into insanity.
Jericho cried out as she tugged and clawed at his arm, pulling it through the bars of her cell and twisting it, locking it in place as the Dementors swooped forward. She was laughing maniacally.
"Impedimenta!" Jericho cried. The spell hit Bellatrix in the face, knocking her backwards and to the floor.
Jericho freed his arm from between the bars and moved to run, but it was too late. His beaver patronus flickered out and vanished. The prisoners were cheering and jeering and banging loudly on the bars of their cell now as the Dementors swooped upon him.
Voldemort stood motionless in the courtyard. He had known all along that the Dementors would flock to his side. He needed no patronus. They sensed he was like them—merciless, cruel and hungry for the suffering of others. They wouldn't touch him, they would obey.
The first to fall was the pretty blonde witch who had been patrolling the courtyard when he arrived. His appearance had shocked her. She had stared at him—seemingly paralyzed with fear at his sudden appearance. She had barely noticed the Dementors coming for her until it was too late.
Her scream had alerted the others—a wailing arose a few seconds later from all around the prison, but it didn't matter. It was already as good as over.
To his right, he could just see the Dementors hunting some wizard down on the rooftop. To his left, a patronus was flickering between the windows high above. It would vanish soon.
He walked forward, raising his wand and cast a blasting hex at the great wooden doors. They exploded inward, showering the prison's lobby with shards of wood.
Even here the Dementors were doing their work. The wizard manning reception—an overweight, gray-haired man was struggling feebly and futilely while a Dementor performed the kiss. The next moment, his hands dropped limply to his side and he stared blankly forward.
He turned to the left. The West Wing was where his loyal Death Eaters were housed. A witch burst out of the door in front of him, running in blind panic. She didn't even notice his presence as she fumbled with a set of keys, trying to open a storeroom or closet to hide.
Voldemort laughed, amused as she dropped the keys on the floor.
"Accio!" he whispered. The keys shot from her grip and towards him.
Her eyes widened with fear as she saw him standing there. "You …" she whispered, her hand reaching for her wand. It was too late, the Dementors, which had been pursuing her had arrived.
Voldemort laughed as he glided past the swarming mass of black-clad creatures. They were clawing and pushing and pulling at each other in their desperation to be the one to perform the kiss.
Loathsome creatures, Voldemort thought. But useful. So very useful.
He walked up the stairs—the prison would be silent now were it not for a commotion above. A banging and clanking and cheering and laughing.
There was a door in front of him. It was no barrier. He blasted it open and stepped into the corridor. He summoned a ball of energy which hovered in the air in front of him, illuminating the scene and illuminating himself.
He was in a narrow corridor, a row of cells along one side, a row of stone windows gazing out at the courtyard was opposite them. On the floor in front of him lay a wizard, on his side, staring blankly. The Dementors which had been surrounding him glided back, hissing gently.
The cells, which had been full of cheering, jeering prisoners fell silent upon seeing him. There was a few seconds pause and then, one-by-one, they sank to their knees in honor at the return of their master.
Bellatrix Lestrange
Bellatrix Lestrange pushed one of the cells open and stepped inside. She smiled triumphantly as she gazed at the hunched figure sat in the corner. He was naked and stared blankly at the walls. He didn't even acknowledge her presence. The man had received the Dementor's Kiss and was no nothing more than a shell—a body with no sense of self. The Ministry had to force food down his throat to keep him alive. It would have been a mercy to kill him, but the Ministry wasn't known for its mercy. In many ways, they were just as cruel and brutal as the dark forces they claimed to oppose.
"Hello, cousin," she said in a mock-cheerful voice. "How is wickle Sirius enjoying his wickle stay at Pwison!" her voice developed a mock-baby voice.
Sirius Black's head turned slightly towards her for a few seconds, then dropped down again, her appearance barely registering.
"Did wickle baby Siri get a kissy-wissy!" she giggled. She slapped him—hard. The blow snapped his head to the side, but Sirius didn't respond. Bellatrix didn't even know if the thing could even feel pain any more.
To test it, she dug a finger into one of his eyes, twisting and squeezing. He didn't even move, even as his eyeball popped.
This was no fun, she decided. What was the point of tormenting somebody if they weren't going to react. She considered leaving the shell of Sirius here, to let him slowly starve to death and yet, he had to die. She had her reasons for wanting to kill her cousin, so it had to be done.
Bellatrix stared at the blank eyes of Sirius Black. She found it amusing that even after being kissed, the Ministry had sent him back to Azkaban once more. Cruelty on top of cruelty. She punched him in the nose. No response, even as it shattered and blood splattered across his dirt-covered face.
"Goodbye cousin," Bellatrix said, softly, placing her hands around his throat.