Part One
A Thread of Light
The prisoner in cell thirty-nine shifted onto his back, pressing one cheek against the damp wall. If he tilted his head the right way, squinting hard, he could see a crack of light glowing faintly, between the ceiling and the wall.
Somewhere, somewhere outside his terrible prison, a sun was shining.
He stretched his fingers toward the tiny glint of gold. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost feel its warmth, almost remember sunlight...
But no; he couldn't remember anything, couldn't even recall his name, his life before Azkaban. He knew only the cold, dark cell, the shouts of anger from the other prisoners, and the icy terror that gripped his heart whenever the Dementors passed by...
The Dementors. He could sense them before they glided down the halls, feel the inexplicable fear that emanated from their haunting forms. Even now, just thinking about them, the prisoner felt the chill sink deep into his bones. He flinched involuntarily.
There was a scrape from the door of his cell. A tiny flap had been lifted, and a wooden tray was shoved through; a tray that, the prisoner knew, without groping through the dark, held a short cup of grimy water, a pitiful piece of beef, and a rough, doughy slice of bread.
But he didn't want to waste a moment when he could gaze up at the thin crack of light, waiting, and wondering.
Cornelius Fudge puffed a bit as he climbed the stairs to Azkaban Prison. It was a dreary day, and gray clouds hung low over the rolling sea. I still can't believe we're doing this, Fudge thought, gripping the damp railing with both hands. Ministry's never gone in this direction before...if Albus hadn't...
Fudge shook his head to push away his confused thoughts, then shivered. Even though the Dementors had been called off, the permanent chill of the rocky island was settling somewhere in his heart.
The tall stone doors of Azkaban towered high above Fudge's head. With the sigh of one resigned to the worst, he lifted the heavy iron knocker.
The booming thuds echoed somewhere beyond. Slowly, one of the doors creaked open; Fudge found himself looking into the bright gray eyes of Melander Mancep, the Azkaban warden.
"Ah, Fudge," he said, smiling thinly and opening the door. "Unusual circumstances, I understand...but we'll have to hurry, the Dementors can only be detained for so long."
Fudge nodded, but did not allow Mancep to remove his cloak. "How have you been, Melander?"
"Ah, well." Mancep strode down the cold, bare entrance hall. He always had made Fudge quite uncomfortable.
But what would you expect, living in a place like this? Fudge thought. With another shiver, he followed Mancep down toward the prisoners' cells.
"Near the back, he is," Mancep called over his shoulder. He took a torch from the wall and lighted it with a tap of his wand. Fudge began the nasty descent to the vaults, trying to keep away from the bony hands of prisoners reaching through the bars...
"Richard! They've killed him!" screamed one man, eyes glowing through the darkness. Another prisoner was murmuring some sort of curse under his breath, staring fixedly at the wall. With increasing doubt of Dumbledore's sanity, Fudge walked a bit faster.
"Cell thirty-nine," said Mancep, finally, taking a large ring of keys from his pocket. He unlocked the bars of the cell, and Fudge stepped back nervously.
A thin man in ragged clothes was lying on the floor. Fudge thought him asleep - or perhaps in some sort of stupor - but when the cell door opened, he sat up and crawled into a corner. Crouching there, he threw his hands over his head in a feeble attempt to protect himself.
Now Mancep was moving into the cell, pulling at the prisoner. "This," he said grimly, is Achenar Anser."
He had known that his day was different. The permanent cold of the Dementors had faded away, and the tiny crack of light was just a bit brighter. This had happened before, but time meant nothing to this prisoner - there was only light, and the darkness between.
Then, when the door to his cell had opened; he had only thought a Dementor was upon him, and, as always, tried to disappear. But no; it was a thin man in a dark cloak, and he was tugging on the prisoner's arms.
"Achenar Anser," he had said. "This is Achenar Anser." Spoken words, such as he had never heard - he was used to unintelligible screams and wailing - seemed to fill a part of him, a part that had been empty before.
And those words, specifically...Achenar Anser...seemed to invoke something, was it...recognition?
"C'mon now, get up." The man sounded a bit inpatient. At a loss for what to do, the prisoner struggled to his feet. A wizard in a pin-striped suit was hovering nervously outside the cell.
The prisoner couldn't believe it. He was being led out of his cell, into the hallway. A flaming torch cast light on the stone floor, and dancing patterns dazzled his eyes. His two companions led him up a flight of stairs.
The other prisoners were strangely quiet, and it filled him with unease.
"Do you have his paperwork, Melander?" It took a moment for him to register the words. Human speech still seemed a foreign language, one he only half-understood.
"Everything's in order, Minister." His voice was taut.
The two men were silent as they continued upward. The prisoner felt his heart beating rapidly, thumping against his ribs. He was suddenly seized with a fear of what lay above; his cell was horrible, but at least the cold darkness was familiar.
They stepped into a great entrance hall. The walls stretched high above their heads, and now the Minister was clearing his throat.
"Er...Mr. Anser? We'll have to Apparate to Diagon Alley. If you'll just..."
But his words were lost on the prisoner. He suddenly realized that this Achenar was...was him. He had a name; he had an identity. This blow caught him with incredible force, and he doubled over, but now their surroundings had faded; they were in a small room with white-washed walls, so bright that Achenar covered his eyes with grimy fingers.
"Amelia?" The Minister called out uncertainly, brushing off the sleeves of his suit. "We've got him."
A woman in flowing white robes swished into the room. She looked at Achenar and did a double take. "Wow."
"Yes, I know," said the Minister, a bit wearily. "I'll go and fetch Dumbledore. Said he wanted to talk to him." He jerked his head toward Achenar before disappearing.
The woman - Amelia - was now walking around him, looking both worried and curious. "Wow," she repeated. Achenar returned her questioning gaze, and she shivered a bit before turning away.
"Malnourished, muscle atrophy, some sort of skin disease," she murmured to herself. Amelia pulled something from within her robes, and began to circle around Achenar once more. "What happened to you?"
His eyelids were lowering. The room blurred.
"Albus?"
Cornelius Fudge looked into the tiny office. Headmaster Dumbledore was sitting at a marble-topped table, sipping tea and reading the Daily Prophet, looking perfectly calm.
"Mmm?"
"We've got the prisoner...er, Achenar, here. Albus, the man looks terrible." Cornelius leaned against the empty chair, took a deep breath. "Are you...are you certain that this was a good idea? After all, he is a convicted felon..."
"Yes, Cornelius," said Albus, firmly. "Our current position is not negotiable. We need him. Mr. Anser's capacity for magic...he was the only known conductor of this curse. Not particularly admirable, really, but desperate times call for desperate measures."
Fudge was still shaking his head. "And then...if he can lift it...he'll go straight back to Azkaban, won't he?"
Dumbledore stroked his beard with graceful fingers. "Yes."
When Achenar awoke, he was lying on his back. His first instinct was to search for the crack of light, but it was not there. Then he remembered, and his world seemed to whirl and disappear. With trembling fingers, Achenar reached up for his face. The tangled beard that had straggled down his chin for so long was gone. One cheek was rough, and Achenar realized it must have been from inching along the floor of his cell.
"Waking up, are we?" A plump woman with a blond bun was leaning over him, feeling his pulse and biting her lip. "Amelia's tired herself out working on you...and I can see why. You've been through a bit of a spot, haven't you?"
Her eyes were blue and sparkling.
"I'm Madame Prewett, head of this Healing Department. Memory problems, they said. Most of what I say won't make must sense, I warrant. Oh, Professor Dumbledore's coming up to see you, right soon, I daresay..."
Her stream of endless chatter washed over Achenar as she helped him to his feet. He felt a bit unsteady, swaying back and forth. His hands, usually filthy and bleeding, had been scrubbed clean. A new set of robes hung loosely on his slim frame.
"This way," said Madame Prewett, guiding Achenar gently out of the room. They entered a small office down the hall.
Inside, a man with a long, silvery beard was peering at him over half-moon glasses.
"Ah, Mr. Anser," he said. He signaled for Achenar to sit at his table, which he did, a bit awkwardly. "I am Albus Dumbledore." Albus Dumbledore extended a hand to Achenar, who only looked at him, blankly.
"Yes," said Dumbledore, uneasily. Then he brightened. "I'm sure you have lots of questions for us, Achenar. For now...we're in the Healers' offices at Diagon Alley. The Healers will be caring for you for as long as necessary, until you are healthy enough to work with us."
Achenar coughed. All this was happening so fast, his head was pounding. He opened his mouth. "W-why," he croaked out. His lips felt strange around the words, throat stretching painfully.
Dumbledore blinked. "I'm not sure you will understand quite yet, Achenar," he said, carefully. "We'll try to take this one step at a time. Now, why don't you go and get some rest?"
Madame Prewett reappeared, and Achenar allowed himself to
be led back to his room, lowered onto the lumpy pallet. Under
the blankets, he curled himself into a ball, head tucked between
his knees. He stared at nothing until sleep claimed him.