Esta's point of view

...That one was harder to fully type out than expected. Probably because it's her point of view and she's an abusive, manipulative sociopath.

Also, warning, murder ahead. It's all deserved, though.

Chapter 2: Esta Goldhorn

Esta Goldhorn wasn't quite sure where it had gone pearshaped – what, exactly, she had failed to take into consideration – but it seemed obvious it had to do with Altair. She'd made sure to corral the child, though, and never before had he dared...!

Her eyes fixed on the growing silhouette of Azkaban's island, the witch ground her teeth just hard enough that the auror and the two others from of the Department of Magical Justice accompanying her looked her way – and Esta didn't like it, she didn't like that they were probably seeing her anger right now, she didn't like that she was here at all, and it was all that damned child's fault!

They'd come yesterday, knocking on her door, and before she knew it she'd been sitting in front of Amelia Bones, a file about Altair's injuries on the desk between the two women, and an Azkaban sentence looming in her future.

The child.

The child who'd never even shown any kind of tendency that would indicate he had anything in common with his father, except for being a disappointment! No freaking courage to speak of, none of his father's rage or cunning, only his capacity to make you understand he wasn't pleased with what you expected of him – but not the backbone to do anything about it.

She'd have been biting her nails, if her hands weren't tightly chained.

When did the child...

But he was more like his father than she'd expected, then. For all that he'd said nothing before... He'd seen an opportunity, and he'd taken it. This time, Altair really had a chance: he was away from her, and for a long time. Before, she'd never left him alone long enough, far enough for him to try and tempt the devil... Where his father would have taken any opportunity, risks be damned, the child wasn't quite as upfront, was he? But confronted with a low-risk opportunity...

Esta would have laughed, if she wasn't feeling like strangling the damned child. That had to be her influence, more than his father's character. Altair had waited to be sure of his tentative, and there she was.

Well and truly fucked.

She could see, now, the buildings on the small, dreary island. They were almost there.

Bones had been clear enough about what was going to happen to her. Child abuse – tss, as if no one ever raised their hand on their children occasionally! Sure, she might have done it a bit more frequently than most, but still – was a serious offense, even if it didn't fall under the Dark Magic Act – as long as one didn't, erm, use dark magic on the children, of course. Which Esta had never done, obviously. If only because that was stupid, when you could simply backhand a child.

She was going to be held in the Rodin wing – the French, muggle sculptor of the same name was a descendant of the wizard who'd first entered the damned fortress after its owner's death, and the inspiration for the "Porte de l'Enfer" was obvious enough – until her file could be entirely processed and – barring any new development – then she'd be transferred to the Prometheus wing for three years. Which wasn't good news, in case someone was wondering.

Esta had found a curious interest in the workings of Azkaban after Sirius's imprisonment, and right now it wasn't helping her at all.

She knew, for example, that the dementors inhabiting the island and who were used as guards for the prison, were most likely the results of the experiments Ekrizdis – no last name, because obviously no family wanted to claim that particular piece of work, but with knowledge like that the wizard had probably not been muggleborn – had done with the Dark Arts, muggle sailors he abducted during storms, and a rather disturbing interest in knowing absolutely everything about what magic could, and could not do – see, that dark wizard had most likely gone to Ravenclaw, Esta would bet on it.

Most importantly, she knew that in the Rodin wing, said dementors only came for rounds, and the prisoners had access to a small library – which most didn't actually find the motivation to use, because even without their constant presence inside the Rodin wing, there were still too many dementors on the island for them not to have an effect on the inmates – ate together in the dining hall – which meant they could get out of their cells, if only for a short time – and were allowed regular mail with the outside.

Mostly, the Rodin wing catered for thieves, repeat offenders of petty crimes, and prisoners waiting for a transfer to another wing. No one stayed longer than one year in the Rodin wing.

It wasn't perfect, and no one actually wanted to get sent there, but. If Esta had to choose, she'd take the Rodin wing – also known as the Gates of Hell, for obvious reasons – over the Prometheus wing or the high-security wing – where Sirius was currently rotting away, the bloody idiot.

Of course, no one was asking her what she wanted, here.

The Prometheus wing was another story. Anyone who wasn't a security risk – or a really, really horrid killer – but had more than one year to live through in Azkaban ended up there. The prisoners only had access to another dining hall, and five dementors were constantly inside the wing.

That was where they wanted to send her – and for what? For being rough with Sirius Black's spawn? Ah! That alone would ensure her acquittal, with the lawyers she had on retainer.

Altair didn't have anyone else, anyway. What were they planning to do with him, once he'd have to leave Hogwarts for the summer, if Esta herself wasn't here? No one would want to raise the Black heir – and those who might, if only for his blood, wouldn't appreciate the negative publicity.

But she wasn't going to stay here, she thought with a sneer as the boat finally reached the island – Esta felt a cold wave of despair washing over her mind, as her eyes fell on a dementor gliding overhead, its hidden face turned her way. Three years was a long time she wouldn't last here, she wouldn't, she could feel it in her bones and in her guts as she scrambled for a thought, any thought happy enough to sustain her, but they were slipping away, as if she'd never felt anything positive in her entire life, and why, exactly, was she trying to find a reason to... – but she wouldn't stay on this island three weeks. She had her lawyers, and she already knew how to spin her story.

All she had to do was make it seems like the child was the same as his father.

A Black. In need of an iron fist, lest he strayed to the dark side doubts. What if they didn't believe her, what if... – But no, that was the dementors talking, the fear, the desperation, and Esta would not let them do that to her!

She wouldn't.

But what if they did, anyway?

She'd be out of here within three weeks. They'd believe her, because Altair was a Black, because everyone had believed it of Sirius and they would believe it of his son too.

Maybe she wouldn't get to keep him – everything he represented, his father's fortune and his blood status – but she would get out. Maybe they'd believe she wasn't suited for keeping him – but they would never doubt that it was his fault, and not hers.

The auror produced a patronus – a feline of some kind, Esta didn't take the time to properly look – which started accompanying them as they made their way to Azkaban's gates – tall, dark and iron-wrought. The feeling of fear in her chest receded, and the witch found she could think clearly again, without unwelcome memories assailing her.

She would get out of here.

After all, it was Altair's fault. The child had never been what she needed – not quite. Esta didn't want competition, so having a son just like her? That would have been a problem. For him to be just like Sirius would have been a bigger problem, too – let it not be forgotten that Altair's father had gotten the hell out of Dodge at sixteen, and Esta wouldn't be able to exploit Altair's status to its full potential if he got the same idea. What she needed, in fact, was a child who knew where their place was, and she'd almost thought she'd gotten it right...

Only for him to somehow figure out that people knowing about how she raised him – not that it was any of their business – would have consequences, of the likes she didn't care for!

Well. She may have gotten a bit careless in the later years. When she'd started all this – the deal with Walburga Black, the visits from Bellatrix Lestrange – she had expected to live, at least some years, with Sirius' unwavering gaze on how she'd educate their child – but less than six months later, he was gone. Then it had been Walburga – though the old witch certainly had been less concerned about what was appropriate child-rearing than her son would ever be, Esta had still needed to be careful about what, exactly, she punished Altair for – but the old woman was dead, now. Finally, there'd been Arcturus Black, but Esta had gotten into a spat with Altair's great-grandfather five years ago, so he hadn't been witness to how she'd started treating the child for the last four years of the old wizard's life.

Not that anyone really cared about Altair. The only one who did – who, perhaps, might, with how dementors fucked with your mind – was on this island.

The others? Again, Walburga and Arcturus Black were dead, Narcissa Malfoy showed more interest in her youngest cousin than her father did even if he was also Altair's great-grandfather – but Lucius Malfoy would never let her care more than that – and Esta had made sure to keep the child away from Andromeda Tonks and her daughter.

And honestly. Esta didn't care what happened to Black's son, if only she could get out of here.

Of course, it'd be a disappointment to lose the status she'd secured for herself – she could still remember, a borderline summons by Walburga Black in early 1980, a deal done in secret, and then, Bellatrix Lestrange visiting, implying that her position was perfect to keep an eye on Sirius' extracurriculars from the Auror Office.

Esta, of course, had had no doubt about what Sirius' murderous cousin was getting at. Sirius hadn't showcased his involvement in the ongoing civil war, and at that point, neither had Bellatrix Lestrange – but it was obvious enough, which side each of them belonged to. Sometimes, Esta would catch Sirius with a spot of dried blood on his clothes outside of office duties, or overhear him talking in hushed tones to one of his friends, only to go silent when he'd spot her coming.

To be clear, Esta didn't particularly care about blood purity. It was, in her case, a useful tool, because such was the society she lived in – and Esta loved useful tools, so she didn't shy away from using it. That being said, if she met a muggleborn who could be useful to her, well. She'd use them, of course. In the same way, she didn't care for purebloods who would not serve her interest – but she'd remain polite enough, because she didn't want people to try and guess at her allegiances, when in truth she had none but to herself.

When confronted with Bellatrix Lestrange in her dining room, Esta had done the math – useful muggle tool, which even wizards used but didn't exactly recognize as such – and concluded she had more to lose by not doing what the Death Eater wanted. Most powerful people in the wizarding community were purebloods, and even half-hearted participation would earn her some favoritism and goodwill, and at least that way Lestrange had no reason to try and torture her for her trouble.

Esta Goldhorn always knew a good deal when she saw one – and, most importantly, she could recognize a dangerous refusal a mile away.

It hadn't been a difficult choice to make.

This time was the same. Maybe she'd lose what she'd gained with her deal with Walburga Black, but if that meant getting out scot-free, she'd take it.

Esta and her escort stopped by the warden's building – warded with runes to limit the effects of dementors, and the guards were on a two-weeks rotation in and off duty, her presently-disturbing knowledge of Azkaban supplied – to register her arrival, have her change into a prison uniform, and give her the basic rules – which she already knew, obviously, because she had researched the prison.

The DMJ employees stayed behind to deal with formalities with the chief warden, while the female guards guided Esta to a closed room for her to change and deposit her personal effects. She could see the shadow of the auror's silhouette under the door, for he was standing guard at the only exit.

Esta didn't like the looks the guards were giving her – as if they had any right to judge, as if they knew anything, as if she belonged here – but said nothing, all too aware of her precarious situation. It was better for her to remain civil enough, to help her reputation by the time her lawyers managed to get her out. It wouldn't do to start spewing the truth – that she didn't care, that Altair had deserved it, that she had no remorse.

Once she was wearing a grey and shapeless set of robes, Esta was dragged back into the interview room by one of the three female guards, and handed back over to the auror.

"Auror Dawlish, you can bring her to her cell. Rodin wing, n°28. Don't forget to check back in on your way out."

"Sure."

The DMJ employees had left already – probably waiting by the docks for the auror to join them – and she knew that only aurors and the chief warden were allowed to bring a prisoner in or out of their cell, outside of daily meals for the Prometheus and Rodin wings. Any change in accommodations was therefore overseen by the chief warden or visiting aurors, supposedly to handle any mishap until the anchoring shackles inside the cell were activated – none were needed in the high-security wing, because those prisoners never left their cells.

Dawlish scowled at her.

"Get moving, I have other things to do today than escort your sorry ass to your new suite."

Esta bit back a retort and fell into step next to the wizard.

Unfortunately for her, the man had more things to say on the subject of her imprisonment, as she noticed the moment they took a swerve to the right instead of continuing straight ahead.

Esta's eyes immediately recognized the most intimidating part of the fortress – five dark floors, with shadows eaten away by darkness, only one vertical row of windows opening up the corridors to an unforgiving wind, and, she knew, the moon providing the only light at night.

This wasn't the Rodin wing.

"You know what? We'll make a detour by your sweetheart's cell. 'Wouldn't want you to misunderstand what exactly you're here for, and how this is not a vacation resort."

Esta almost tried to yank away – but a dementor roaming around turned in her direction, its heavy, grey-bordered hood fluttering under the wind without actually showing anything. Dawlish had his patronus by his side, a sneer on his lips, and he knew, of course he did, that she wouldn't try to get away, not when it meant fleeing into the cold embrace of a dementor.

"Well, then. I'm waiting."

Esta gritted her teeth, and started walking again – close, closer to the bright patronus which was watching her like a cat might a small bird.

Almost conversationally, the auror commented:

"Did you know a dementor's hood was bordered with lead? It makes it heavier to take off, which does reduce the risk of an impromptu Kiss, but mostly it's because its magical properties isolate part of their auras."

The auror stopped in his tracks, and looked her in the eyes.

"Now imagine how it must feel, when the hood is taken off. Or when there are twenty of these monsters roaming about, right next to you. So far, you've only lived through the general atmosphere of Azkaban, and as long as you stay in the Rodin wing, you won't know much more than one or two dementors passing by you for a short time. But your sweetheart, him? He's in the high-security wing."

Esta couldn't help but look at the eerie building as the auror started walking again – and her, unwilling to be left behind, to be left alone with the soul-sucking monsters, she followed.

But even away from the dementors, walking next to Dawlish's patronus, a heavy weight settled in her stomach.

Sirius was probably reduced to a ghost of himself, after eleven years in Azkaban's high-security wing. She had nothing to fear from him – there was nothing he could do to her.

She knew that.

The reason Dawlish was taking her to see Sirius probably wasn't to make her pay – Sirius, back then, would have killed her for what she did to Altair, that much was obvious, but she didn't think the Auror knew that. He probably wanted to hurt her, to scare her with the sight of her lover's decline, because he thought that she cared, or at least that she wouldn't want it to happen to her.

Still, even if she knew, even if Sirius couldn't do anything to her – the possibility which most scared her, right now, was seeing him and understanding that Sirius wouldn't rest before she paid.

Dawlish wasn't finished, far from it.

"Black is in constant contact with the twenty dementors assigned to the high-security wing, and unlike any of the others, he's still able to hold a conversation. So the guards told him, you know. And he didn't even blink, when he heard how you treat your son. One of the worst, your sweetheart. A monster, really. I guess it's always been hell in his head, nothing changed here."

Esta didn't stop, this time – there was a dementor a few feet behind them, hovering just clear of Dawlish's patronus, and she could feel its presence, lurking, ready to get her and her memories – but she found she had more difficulties breathing. It wasn't quite debilitating – not yet – but her intakes of air became harsher, and letting it go had her in some kind of phantom pain.

Sirius knew, and they were going to see him before Dawlish brought her to her cell in the Rodin wing.

He knew.

He couldn't do anything to her, she knew that – he didn't have his wand, and the constant exposure to dementors caused a loss of mental faculties even a while after being free of them, it was impossible to concentrate so wandless spells were out, and while Esta would normally be worried about accidental magic from an enraged Black, eleven years in the high-security wing also ensured that Sirius wouldn't be healthy enough to spare enough magic for an outburst, especially an involuntary one.

He couldn't do anything to her, even if he probably craved it – except, of course, if the dementors had taken away his ability to feel, the possibility of hatred with it.

She was safe, as safe as anyone could be while in Azkaban.

They passed the stone door leading to the high-security wing, and Esta made it a point not to look at the prisoners they walked by on their way to the central staircase. About half the cells were used, today – a few of the first wizarding war's prisoners had died in the years following 1981, and this was high-security; only convicted Death Eaters and highly dangerous criminals were brought there. It would be worrying if the whole wing had been full.

Even without looking at them – her second cousin on her father's side, Lucas Travers, was somewhere amongst them, but she didn't really care enough to try and check if one of the wailing prisoners bore his face, or if he was one of those crying silently in a corner of their cell – Esta couldn't quite ignore the Death Eaters and other psychopaths. One of them almost threw herself against her bars, seeing someone pass by, and started whispering insane words while staring creepily at Dawlish – she couldn't help but wonder, was it Bellatrix? But she didn't look.

A shiver went down her spine, as a blood-curling scream shrilled her ears from somewhere to her left – as a dementor crossed their path and went to the screaming prisoner.

This was the place Sirius had spent the last eleven years.

Esta – tried to, given the bleak outlook for her future and the general fright brought by Azkaban, patronus or not – comforted herself with that thought: perhaps he'd scare her, perhaps he'd say things about what she'd done to their son, but he would be in the same state as the others, no matter what Dawlish said.

She had nothing to fear from Sirius Black, despite who he was, despite what he was capable of.

They reached the third floor and Dawlish pushed her to the left, passing by yet another dementor.

"The chief warden first put him next to Rookwood and Flint on floor 2, but they found Flint dead by suffocation in 1983 and Rookwood would only say Black did it. Not that he could have, mind you, or that anything indicated he did it, but the other asshole wouldn't shut up about it. For all we know, Flint just managed to end herself when Azkaban got to her."

That did not help Esta keep calm, at all.

Oh, she believed it, when Dawlish said Sirius couldn't have done it, because this was Azkaban, and even by 1983 Sirius had to have been unable to do anything like murdering someone – senior Death Eater or not – without leaving a trace. But it didn't stop her imagination from running wild, and she knew – she knew, she'd seen it once, and after that she'd never managed to forget, not to see it deep inside his silver eyes – better than most what Sirius Black was capable of, even if he hadn't chosen the side where it'd have been showcased for all to see.

Then again, Dawlish wasn't doing this to keep her calm, after all. If she was getting terrified for other reasons than what he'd expected – and she wouldn't go around telling him, that was for sure – it still worked.

There were no other prisoners in this part of the third floor, she noticed as her eyes fell on the empty cells, and her ears could only pick up on the distorted screams from the upper and lower floors.

Just him.

"Hey, Black!"

Dawlish's voice rang out in the emptiness, startling Esta.

Then she heard the discreet sounds of someone picking themselves up from the stone floor, cracking joints moving with difficulty.

There was a lone cell with an empty wooden bowl she could distinguish through the bars, on the right side of the corridor, right at the end of it.

Dread settled in Esta's guts – but she had nothing to fear, the most he could do was...

"The golden couple, reunited at last! Both of you in Azkaban, starting today. Your son really lucked out between the two of you."

Only three steps left, and she'd see – she'd see...

Ignoring Dawlish's taunting words, Esta forced herself to look – the sooner she did it, the sooner the auror would bring her to the Rodin wing, away from this terrible place, away from him, from his anger and from the look in his eyes, the look she remembered from back then, that day she'd seen him looking so much like his cousin had, creeping into her dining room to make devil-based deals.

Here she was, face to face with the.. empty cell.

Esta's breath caught in her throat, and next to her Dawlish cursed, spinning on his heels to look for his prisoner.

A dull sound resonated just behind her, and Esta – unable to move – saw the auror fall to the ground next to her, looking very much unconscious and therefore unable to prevent whatever would be happening to her anytime soon.

From the corner of her eye she saw the wizard's patronus waver, but it did not disappear, though it seemed a bit confused. It seemed ridiculous, given the situation, to wonder how the charm wasn't dissipating even though Dawlish was obviously not in the state to continue focusing on it.

"We have about three minutes before either he snaps out of this trance or the dementors start noticing there's something wrong despite the patronus."

Esta felt that voice dripping down her spine – rough, unused, cold.

Sirius left her back to stand before her with tense steps – like he still could move, but it hurt, and yet he would not let it stop him – and for the first time in eleven years, Esta Goldhorn saw Sirius Black.

Thin, pale, and eyes full of fire.

Bones protruding under stretched, damaged skin, a hint of yellow teeth behind slightly parted lips, matted and dirty hair, and Esta could almost guess at his ribs each time he breathed.

Unfortunately, his diminished appearance didn't stop her from feeling terror at his sight.

His broken voice rose again.

"I was going to just break out and... deal with some things, before getting Altair back... Then I reconsidered. After all, you are here today, aren't you?"

She had no answer for that – only questions, how was he out, what did he intend to do to her?

"What do you say?"

This, however, got her to react – not intelligently, not appropriately, nothing here could save her, she knew, and fear sometimes sparks anger. She understood what the edge to his question meant, what he was talking about – and she might not know what was coming, but she knew how it would end.

"What did you think, Black? We never loved each other, so why should I love your spawn? In fact, I was with you only to keep an eye on a dangerous blood traitor, not that I needed to, apparently! You landed yourself in Azkaban without anyone's he...!"

Suddenly she couldn't talk – breathe – anymore. Her hands went to her throat, useless.

Can't breathe – can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe –

He shouldn't have any powers left, she knew that. He'd been in here eleven years, should be drained dry, any sparkle of magic power taken away as soon as it was born –

How could he –

Esta barely felt herself falling to the ground, and everything went black – before her breath disappeared, and her sight went with it, and her thoughts, and her life, her eyes caught his feet walking away, shifting into a mass of black.