A/N: I'm poking this damn series on as fast as I can without ruining it. Keep tuned. As you can see, I've changed the title. I found a flaw in the plot, and had to change some things. It no longer had a reason to be called 'The Art of Freedom' once I had finished fiddling with it, so it is the 'Now Untitled Series'.
Xing's new 'chaptered' feature screwed me up royally for a very confusing while, so sorry for the wait.
Lestrange sounded French to me. And I made up their first names.
Here's an idea for what you should do while ol' slow typing aragog finishes the fourth chapter; go check out Soz's series The Third Camp.
DISCLAIMER: **sets a folder marked 'Lawsuit' on fire** Burn, baby, burn.
Shadows.
His world was shadow and stone.
What was his name again?
The man clawed at his thin brown hair with dirty fingernails.
"Shut up!" he screamed at the voices, the cold whispers in his mind, "Shut up! Let me remember, please, I have to remember!"
He let out a howl of misery and slammed his fist against the stone wall. When he brought it away, it was covered in blood from a gash in the side of his palm. The sight of it pleased him; it meant he was still human, still flesh and blood as it had been before, not some tortured animal.
What was before?
What was now? Now was Azkaban.
The man dropped to his knees, cradling his mangled hand. He kept his mind blank, trying not to think or concentrate too hard. It was a trick he had learned in his nine or so years in this hellhole. Don't think. If you do, the Dementors will come and suck your brain dry.
Diomedes. Diomedes Towne. That was who he was. He wasn't just the prisoner in cell number 277; he was Diomedes Towne.
It felt as though he were waking up. He groped further into his mind, pushing past the invisible barriers that the Dementors had set up in his memory. He worked for the Department of Muggle Co-operation.
What was that again?
Never mind. The sensation of knowing something, something being clear and vivid in all this greyness was sweet enough.
Why was he here? No matter how far he reached, he couldn't recall this bit of information.
Maybe I'm innocent.
"Innocent!" he screamed standing up and banging on his barred door, "I am innocent! Let me out!"
Something tall and black moved outside in the damp corridor. It stopped in front of his cell. Diomedes continued to yell at it, hurl curses it.
It took a deep and rattling breath. Diomedes was pitched into an ice pool of pain.
"Guilty!"
He could hear voices.
"Life in Azkaban!"
Mingled tones called out at him. Diomedes screamed again. He couldn't breathe...he couldn't see...he couldn't feel...
And he was back, curled up in the corner of his cell, crying dry tears. His mind was blank again. He could only twitch and sob. There was no future or past for him at that moment; only the present, and all his suffering.
* * *
"Imbecile!" Voldemort screamed, "Half wit! Idiot!"
"Master, master, I didn't understand, I didn't know!" Macnair pleaded vainly.
"You've lost me a Death Eater, fool!" Voldemort advanced on the cowering man, "Crucio!" Macnair began to writhe and twist on the ground, yelling hoarsely.
"He is a rebel giant, Macnair!" Voldemort waved his wand, and Macnair lay still, "He is very unstable. The slightest thing will change his mind so that his is against us, as he is now!
"So you send Nott to persuade him, thus proving that you are on a level of stupidity that I have never seen! The giant is against us now, and he has killed Nott! Crucio!"
Walter let out a howl that didn't seen human, or animal, something that came from the depths of his being.
"I hope you have learned a lesson," Voldemort lifted the curse, "Out!" Walter stood weakly, wiping blood from his mouth, and Disapparated.
He now regretted ever becoming a Death Eater. But if he turned his back on Voldemort, he would regret it even more.
Voldemort stood in the centre of the chamber, rubbing his temples, muttering.
"Have they all lost their wits in the last fifteen years?" he burst out, the high words echoing off the stone, bouncing back and forth.
"WormTAIL!" he whipped around, looking for the short man, "WormTAIL!" The pudgy figure scuttled out and bowed before his lord.
"Any leads on Mohinder Patil?"
"No, sir."
Voldemort let out another screech of rage, "Morons! You are all MORONS! Can't you do anything right? Anything? For your Master, whom you have pledged absolute faithfulness to, can you not do anything?"
Wormtail was doing some very quick thinking, "Lucius. Lucius Malfoy. We can smuggle him from the Ministry. Would he not be helpful, sir?"
Voldemort stopped, "And what would we do should they come looking for him? The fools at the Ministry, as foolish as they are, do have some brains, unlike my Death Eaters. They have a tracking spell on anyone they keep in questioning. Should they escape, they will find them most easily. It is a stupid, worthless, idea, Wormtail, one that only a blundering idiot like you would think of."
Voldemort started to pace again, his face screwed up in an expression of suspended concentration. He suddenly turned back to Wormtail, eyes glittering in a disturbing maniacal way, " How would you like to go back to jolly old Hogwarts, Wormtail?"
* * *
Diomedes tried to clear his head enough to stand up. I am innocent. I am innocent.
The burden on his shoulders slid away a bit. Diomedes jumped up. The air was still heavily metallic, and still smelled of rat droppings. There was a twist in it, somehow. There was fading jolt to it, a buzzing tingle. It slipped out of the atmosphere for a second, then would float back. It was as if the very air Diomedes was breathing was becoming warmer, then colder, and then warm again.
He pushed himself to look out the bars in his door, and what he saw nearly knocked him over.
Dementors. Thousands of them. All moving in one direction, past his cell and down the metal stairs. Diomedes recalled these stairs well; thin planks of steel with no rails. All of Azkaban was layered in tiers; large platforms with doors leading into the cells. All the platforms were accessible from the main floor, by going up flights of the metal stairs.
All the Dementors were leaving the platform. They were going down to the main level.
Diomedes ran to his tiny window, overlooking the sea. In the distance the shore was visible, grey and tantalisingly distant against the night sky, but this, for the first time, was uninteresting to him. The Dementors were filing out of the double doors at the front of the prison, onto the stony beach.
A man was urging them onto what resembled an old Muggle ferry. Diomedes couldn't rightly see the man, or the ship, from his high perch, but one thing seemed certain.
The Dementors were leaving Azkaban.
Diomedes wouldn't let himself believe it. He dashed back to his door, and watched in awe as one, final Dementor descended the stairs, and out of his range of vision.
The fluctuations in the air ceased. For a moment, everything seemed perfectly clear and bright, as clear as it could in Azkaban, where so much suffering had taken place.
Diomedes let out a wild cry. His shout echoed down through the corridor. Several inmates replied, screaming out their disbelief. Very few, of course; most of them were too far gone to really notice something had occurred.
Meanwhile, on the main floor, Michael McManus was in his office. He had a simple black robe with a silver belt and badge, symbols signifying his importance as one of the few non-imprisoned wizards Azkaban had. He was in charge of directing the Dementors, keeping the inmates in order, making sure there was anti-Dementor enchantments around his office, and that sort of thing. The walls of his workroom were plastered with maps of Azkaban with tiny pictures of the inmates moving about (if they were still in that good of shape.) their cells. A poster of Celestina Warbeck was tacked above a ratty old couch in the corner. She was presently asleep, it being nearly 1 o'clock in the morning of August 31st.
Michael himself was presently at his desk, his fair hair untidy and all over his lined face. He was quite handsome, with an air of experienced ruggedness around him. He had a strong, square chin and a well-toned body.
Michael McManus had also been dead for a good thirty minutes. Slumped over the papers on he had been reading not one hour before, a pool of blood was forming around his striking face, staining the worn oak desk. His brown eyes were wide open, a hint of surprise still reflected in them.
His throat had been slit. He had bleed to death in a few minutes. I can't say if he suffered; my neck has never been cut open before. Nor could Jean-Guy Lestrange say anything about how much Michael had suffered; he was merely following his sadistic instincts when he had swooped down on Michael McManus with that menacing dagger of his.
Lestrange now stood back, watching the scene with glittering eyes. His burly hands were covered with sticky blood. He rather liked killing with his hands; there was something triumphant in the sweet smell of fresh blood.
But that was the Muggle way, he reminded himself, Using a wand is showing your true powers. He wiped the blood on his robes. The crimson liquid shone dully in the light of the candle on Michael's desk, which resembled a lighthouse in the sea of blood. Jean-Guy found the similarity gruesomely pleasant, in his twisted mind.
Jean-Guy was now opening filing cabinets at random, throwing open cupboards and searching shelves. It had to be here. After he had totalled the room and not found it, he ran back out into the corridor.
"Leonie!" he called into the darkness, "Leonie, they're not here!"
Leonie Lestrange came out of the office next to Michael's, "Try the room down at the end of the hall."
Leonie watched him disappear into the shadows, then turned back to the office.
"Sorry about that. What did you say your name was? Dawn? I'm Leonie Lestrange," she addressed the dark-skinned woman curled up in the corner. Her accent hinted that she was French, "Do you know who that man was?" Dawn shook her head slowly.
Leonie sneered at the woman and stepped closer to her, "That was my husband, Jean-Guy. Do you know how long we've been in this hell hole?"
Dawn took a deep breath, gathering her courage, "What kind of an interrogation is this?"
"Who has the wand, my dear?" Leonie twirled Dawn's wand around, pink sparks flying from it; she had forced it from her when she had broken into her office. Dawn rubbed her swollen eye, recalling Leonie's hard fist colliding with her face.
"We have been here for fifteen years," Leonie continued causally, striding over to Dawn's desk and picking up a framed picture. It showed Dawn eating a sundae in Diagon Alley, laughing with a small girl sitting beside her, "Is this your daughter?"
"My little sister, Aurora," Dawn whispered, her voice cracking a bit.
Leonie cocked her hand, eyeing the photo. Her face twitched, momentarily forming itself into a look of pity, "I had a younger sister. Her name was Therese. She was 'accidentally' killed when Ministry Officials raided my home. Heartless bastards," Leonie dropped the picture, not even flinching as the blue frame shattered. Dawn bit down on her lip to keep from crying out.
"How would you feel if someone murdered Aurora?" Leonie ran her dirty fingers along Dawn's wand. Ash, Dawn remembered, 11 inches, with dragon scales. It pained her to watch this monster holding it. It was hers. Her magic. Her life was that simple wand.
Leonie ignored Dawn's silence, "Or rather, how would Aurora feel if you were brutally slaughtered?" Leonie raised the wand and brought it down in a graceful arch, leaving a trail of golden dust that fell to the faded carpet like rain.
Dawn squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to notice the burning in her right eye, "What do you want from me?"
Leonie clapped her hands, visibly pleased, "Why, you're smarter than you look! That's wonderful! I don't need to threaten you at all. Where do they keep the inmate's wands?"
"What?" Dawn pulled herself up onto her knees, wincing slightly. It felt as though her ribs were bruised.
"When my husband and I," Leonie hissed, carefully watching Dawn, "were thrown in here, they took our wands away. Where are they?"
Dawn licked her lip, hoping not to taste blood; "They destroyed them."
Leonie frowned, "How?"
"Burned them," Dawn was now on her feet, though slightly hunched over in pain.
Leonie flexed her fingers. For a wild moment, Dawn thought she was going to curse her out of pure rage.
Instead, Leonie called out to the hallway, "Jean-Guy, don't bother looking. This witch here says they burned our wands."
The broad shouldered man poked his head into the office, "What?"
"I said," Leonie sighed and waved Dawn's wand again, "that they burned our wands. This one here belongs to the dear woman in the corner who probably has the keys to open any lock in this bloody place." She spoke slowly and carefully, as though ordering a child about.
Jean-Guy grunted and glared at Dawn, "Mademoiselle, I believe we could use your help. Can you open the cell doors?"
Dawn let out a shuddering breath, trying to concentrate, "I'll need my wand."
Leonie ran her tongue along her teeth, "We will be getting it back, no?"
"Why, of course, Madame," Dawn spat. Leonie frowned slightly.
"Right, then," Jean-Guy strode across the room and pulled Dawn up by her shoulders, causing her to squeal, in both pain and surprise.
"Be nice, Jean-Guy," Leonie smirked as her husband grabbed Dawn beneath the arms and half-carried, half-dragged, her out into the main corridor.
Dawn choked as soon as she left her office. She usually had an anti-Dementor spell on her, so she couldn't feel their effect on her, but that was broken as soon as Leonie had taken her wand. Everything was cold, all of a sudden. It reminded her of the sensation she had felt when she had accidentally walked through the ghost of a Highlander in her uncle's castle. Only this was ten times as icy and tingling. What she found even more eerie was that there were no Dementors.
"Where are the guards?" she said hoarsely.
"They took off about an hour ago, didn't they, Leonie?"
"Yes. Just walked right out of Azkaban."
"Feels right cheerful without them, don't it, Mademoiselle?"
Dawn couldn't tell if they were joking or not, "What do you mean, they took off?"
Leonie grinned at her, "Up and walked away. You see, Lord Voldemort called them."
"P...pardon?"
She heard Jean-Guy laugh behind her, "Leonie, you didn't tell her? Shame on you. Mademoiselle, we are the Lestranges, only the most famous Death-Eaters in Azkaban, except for, perhaps, the so-called Sirius Black. We were among Voldemort's most powerful followers."
Dawn could have hit herself. Leonie and Jean-Guy Lestrange! Of course! Where were her wits?
"How'd you get out?" Dawn glared at Leonie.
"Oh," Leonie gave a harsh laugh, "We've known how to get out of the cells for years. It was just the obstacle of getting past the Dementors that was the tough part. But now that Lord Voldemort has called them, we can be freed! And will be given power beyond all our sweetest dreams..." She trailed off.
They came out of the passage way a few seconds later. There was a huge metal staircase, then a landing with two more staircases leading up towards the walls. The cells were sent into the concrete walls, and shelf like balconies jutted off them. Numerous staircases wove metal beams above their heads. A few prisoners were screaming, the voices bouncing off the cement, howling and screeching. Not a single Dementor was in sight.
"Sounds like the doormat of Hell," Dawn said simply.
Leonie chuckled again, or at least a cough of amusement escaped her mouth, "That's because it is, dearie."
"And you're," Jean-Guy let go of her, "going to let them out." He motioned for Leonie to give her the wand.
Dawn chewed her lip, "Why?"
Leonie leaned up close to her; "We're insane."
"I can see that much," Dawn replied, "But that's not a very plausible motive, is it?"
"Oh," Leonie's face dropped, "And I was so hoping that I wouldn't have to threaten you."
Dawn heard Leonie hiss a spell, and was knocked to the ground. She let out a cry of agony; her left shoulder bone had shattered.
Jean-Guy pulled her to her feet, despite her protests, "We can hurt you much worse. We are Death-Eaters."
Dawn studied them through her teary eyes; Leonie glared right back. Her stare came from under thick black eyebrows that reminded Dawn of caterpillars.
What would Aurora do if I were murdered? Dawn thought, No, do I really what to think about that?
Dawn reached out her hand for the wand; "Can I fix my shoulder first?"
"No," Leonie held the wooden piece back.
Dawn sighed, "Fine. I won't. And I'll give it right back." Leonie tossed it to her.
Knowing she would regret this as soon as she did it, Dawn raised the wand and spoke into the noise of the prisoners, "Harbodium Nostatus, Liberatos Tuttium!" Dawn held her breath. To be truthful, she wasn't sure if this was the actual spell to open up the doors of Azkaban. She was Michael's secretary, and it was only through poking about in Michael's files that she even knew about such an incantation.
Nothing had happened yet. The screams were still echoing, and Dawn still felt the sensation of drowning in freezing water.
Leonie whirled on her, "I thought you said you could do it!" Dawn opened her mouth to defend herself, but something stopped her.
Azkaban was quiet, all of a sudden. The lack of sound was even more terrifying than the noise had been. The only thing heard was what sounded like a faint rushing, the same sound one hears when holding lying in bed, having just awoken from a vivid nightmare; when you aren't breathing or moving, just listening to the darkness.
Click. Click. Click.
Rapid noises began overhead. Dawn jerked her face up, searching for the source.
Click. Click. Click.
It was the grating sound of metal on metal. Someone hooted wildly, and quick footsteps resounded throughout the building.
Dawn suddenly realised what was happening about the same time as everyone else. The latches of the cells were popping open.
The prisoners of Azkaban were prisoners no longer.
* * *
Dilnavaz stared moodily out of her window. The grounds stretched out in front of her, moonlight flowing over it, making the shadows of the Forbidden Forest stand out eerily. She could see the Quidditch pitch and it's dark stands.
She had been at Hogwarts for one day. One, long, trying day. And now she couldn't sleep.
She was definitely drowsy, at the point of fatigue where one's thoughts blur and lines between reality and imagination disintegrate. But she still couldn't sleep.
Every time she tried to close her eyes, she saw her daughters and Mohinder. Or Remus, standing in the graveyard in Devon, glaring at her with those beautiful honey-brown eyes.
No! Not beautiful! Not lovely honey-brown! He was Remus. He had betrayed her. Like Peter did to Lily and James.
Her eyes drifted up to the sky. The stars seemed to twinkle like lanterns. Like thousands of lanterns parading through a stream of black sky.
Minerva McGonagall had shown her around Hogwarts that day. No, she corrected herself, Yesterday. It was nearly 2 o'clock now. Today was the 31st. Tomorrow Parvati and Padma would be here.
When Minerva had pointed out where the staff room and bathrooms were, Dilnavaz had to try and keep from yawning. She had attended Hogwarts with Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs. No room was secret to them, and in the last two years they had spent here she had accompanied them on a few of their adventures. One escapade with a plugged toilet and a pair of Flitwick's socks stood out in her memory.
She tore her eyes away from the window to take another look at her room. The bedroom in her flat wasn't as nice as this, she had to admit.
It was entirely stone, but a had a pretty area carpet with a lotus and tortoise border; Hindu symbols of Earth. The tapestries were definitely Indian; they depicted various Hindu gods and goddesses. Dilnavaz reached out and touched the silky threads of the one nearest her; it was of Devi and her lion, advancing towards a buffalo demon. The image moved, of course. She could she the lion throwing back its head of rich, tawny gold.
She ran her fingers along it, walking past it to the door. This lead to her office, which one reached by going down a flight of stone steps. The stairs were only accessible by saying the correct password to open up a doorway in the panelling of her office. It had a kind of secret thrill about it, the kind of thrill that only Hogwarts had. There was something awe-inspiring in the dusty magic that the very walls of the castle seemed to hold.
Dilnavaz turned to go back to her bed. She had taken Romulus' advice and brought her own bedding. The faded roses on the cover clashed with the bright blues and vibrant reds of the room. She compulsively flicked one of the pale yellow yarn ties on it.
She reached for her wand on the bedside table as she climbed back in. She had suddenly remembered a sleeping spell.
She tapped her temple and was just able to drop her wand back on her cabinet before slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * *
Dawn spun around and flew out of the chamber like a bat out of Hell. The dull pain in her shoulder throbbed as she hurried back down the corridor.
"Michael!" she screamed, nearing his office, "Michael! Where are you? They're escaping!" She dashed through the open door and screamed again.
The sight of her slaughtered boss and the smell of blood overpowered her, and she stumbled back into the hallway, gasping and sobbing.
She ran the opposite direction of the main area of Azkaban. In this bearing, the hall sloped down and towards the main doors. Dawn threw herself against them and burst onto the rocky shore.
The cold, sea air hit her like a ton of bricks. She felt a little sobered by it, but the image of Michael, limp and blood drenched, remained fresh in her mind.
What was she going to do?
She tentatively glanced back at Azkaban, the grey walls shooting up towards the sky. She could hear mingling yells inside. The sound made her want to be sick.
They'll be coming right through those bloody doors any minute now. All thousand or so of those inmates will come stampeding out onto the shore, she thought.
"Sod it all," she hissed, clutching her shoulder and stumbling down the rocks to the water's edge. The sea, a murky green in the darkness, lapped lightly against it.
I still have my wand, Dawn realised. She gingerly opened her hand, suddenly appreciating its light touch on her dark skin. She hadn't let Leonie take it back.
Dawn hissed the Disapparation spell, and as she disappeared, the doors burst open.
Xing's new 'chaptered' feature screwed me up royally for a very confusing while, so sorry for the wait.
Lestrange sounded French to me. And I made up their first names.
Here's an idea for what you should do while ol' slow typing aragog finishes the fourth chapter; go check out Soz's series The Third Camp.
DISCLAIMER: **sets a folder marked 'Lawsuit' on fire** Burn, baby, burn.
Shadows.
His world was shadow and stone.
What was his name again?
The man clawed at his thin brown hair with dirty fingernails.
"Shut up!" he screamed at the voices, the cold whispers in his mind, "Shut up! Let me remember, please, I have to remember!"
He let out a howl of misery and slammed his fist against the stone wall. When he brought it away, it was covered in blood from a gash in the side of his palm. The sight of it pleased him; it meant he was still human, still flesh and blood as it had been before, not some tortured animal.
What was before?
What was now? Now was Azkaban.
The man dropped to his knees, cradling his mangled hand. He kept his mind blank, trying not to think or concentrate too hard. It was a trick he had learned in his nine or so years in this hellhole. Don't think. If you do, the Dementors will come and suck your brain dry.
Diomedes. Diomedes Towne. That was who he was. He wasn't just the prisoner in cell number 277; he was Diomedes Towne.
It felt as though he were waking up. He groped further into his mind, pushing past the invisible barriers that the Dementors had set up in his memory. He worked for the Department of Muggle Co-operation.
What was that again?
Never mind. The sensation of knowing something, something being clear and vivid in all this greyness was sweet enough.
Why was he here? No matter how far he reached, he couldn't recall this bit of information.
Maybe I'm innocent.
"Innocent!" he screamed standing up and banging on his barred door, "I am innocent! Let me out!"
Something tall and black moved outside in the damp corridor. It stopped in front of his cell. Diomedes continued to yell at it, hurl curses it.
It took a deep and rattling breath. Diomedes was pitched into an ice pool of pain.
"Guilty!"
He could hear voices.
"Life in Azkaban!"
Mingled tones called out at him. Diomedes screamed again. He couldn't breathe...he couldn't see...he couldn't feel...
And he was back, curled up in the corner of his cell, crying dry tears. His mind was blank again. He could only twitch and sob. There was no future or past for him at that moment; only the present, and all his suffering.
* * *
"Imbecile!" Voldemort screamed, "Half wit! Idiot!"
"Master, master, I didn't understand, I didn't know!" Macnair pleaded vainly.
"You've lost me a Death Eater, fool!" Voldemort advanced on the cowering man, "Crucio!" Macnair began to writhe and twist on the ground, yelling hoarsely.
"He is a rebel giant, Macnair!" Voldemort waved his wand, and Macnair lay still, "He is very unstable. The slightest thing will change his mind so that his is against us, as he is now!
"So you send Nott to persuade him, thus proving that you are on a level of stupidity that I have never seen! The giant is against us now, and he has killed Nott! Crucio!"
Walter let out a howl that didn't seen human, or animal, something that came from the depths of his being.
"I hope you have learned a lesson," Voldemort lifted the curse, "Out!" Walter stood weakly, wiping blood from his mouth, and Disapparated.
He now regretted ever becoming a Death Eater. But if he turned his back on Voldemort, he would regret it even more.
Voldemort stood in the centre of the chamber, rubbing his temples, muttering.
"Have they all lost their wits in the last fifteen years?" he burst out, the high words echoing off the stone, bouncing back and forth.
"WormTAIL!" he whipped around, looking for the short man, "WormTAIL!" The pudgy figure scuttled out and bowed before his lord.
"Any leads on Mohinder Patil?"
"No, sir."
Voldemort let out another screech of rage, "Morons! You are all MORONS! Can't you do anything right? Anything? For your Master, whom you have pledged absolute faithfulness to, can you not do anything?"
Wormtail was doing some very quick thinking, "Lucius. Lucius Malfoy. We can smuggle him from the Ministry. Would he not be helpful, sir?"
Voldemort stopped, "And what would we do should they come looking for him? The fools at the Ministry, as foolish as they are, do have some brains, unlike my Death Eaters. They have a tracking spell on anyone they keep in questioning. Should they escape, they will find them most easily. It is a stupid, worthless, idea, Wormtail, one that only a blundering idiot like you would think of."
Voldemort started to pace again, his face screwed up in an expression of suspended concentration. He suddenly turned back to Wormtail, eyes glittering in a disturbing maniacal way, " How would you like to go back to jolly old Hogwarts, Wormtail?"
* * *
Diomedes tried to clear his head enough to stand up. I am innocent. I am innocent.
The burden on his shoulders slid away a bit. Diomedes jumped up. The air was still heavily metallic, and still smelled of rat droppings. There was a twist in it, somehow. There was fading jolt to it, a buzzing tingle. It slipped out of the atmosphere for a second, then would float back. It was as if the very air Diomedes was breathing was becoming warmer, then colder, and then warm again.
He pushed himself to look out the bars in his door, and what he saw nearly knocked him over.
Dementors. Thousands of them. All moving in one direction, past his cell and down the metal stairs. Diomedes recalled these stairs well; thin planks of steel with no rails. All of Azkaban was layered in tiers; large platforms with doors leading into the cells. All the platforms were accessible from the main floor, by going up flights of the metal stairs.
All the Dementors were leaving the platform. They were going down to the main level.
Diomedes ran to his tiny window, overlooking the sea. In the distance the shore was visible, grey and tantalisingly distant against the night sky, but this, for the first time, was uninteresting to him. The Dementors were filing out of the double doors at the front of the prison, onto the stony beach.
A man was urging them onto what resembled an old Muggle ferry. Diomedes couldn't rightly see the man, or the ship, from his high perch, but one thing seemed certain.
The Dementors were leaving Azkaban.
Diomedes wouldn't let himself believe it. He dashed back to his door, and watched in awe as one, final Dementor descended the stairs, and out of his range of vision.
The fluctuations in the air ceased. For a moment, everything seemed perfectly clear and bright, as clear as it could in Azkaban, where so much suffering had taken place.
Diomedes let out a wild cry. His shout echoed down through the corridor. Several inmates replied, screaming out their disbelief. Very few, of course; most of them were too far gone to really notice something had occurred.
Meanwhile, on the main floor, Michael McManus was in his office. He had a simple black robe with a silver belt and badge, symbols signifying his importance as one of the few non-imprisoned wizards Azkaban had. He was in charge of directing the Dementors, keeping the inmates in order, making sure there was anti-Dementor enchantments around his office, and that sort of thing. The walls of his workroom were plastered with maps of Azkaban with tiny pictures of the inmates moving about (if they were still in that good of shape.) their cells. A poster of Celestina Warbeck was tacked above a ratty old couch in the corner. She was presently asleep, it being nearly 1 o'clock in the morning of August 31st.
Michael himself was presently at his desk, his fair hair untidy and all over his lined face. He was quite handsome, with an air of experienced ruggedness around him. He had a strong, square chin and a well-toned body.
Michael McManus had also been dead for a good thirty minutes. Slumped over the papers on he had been reading not one hour before, a pool of blood was forming around his striking face, staining the worn oak desk. His brown eyes were wide open, a hint of surprise still reflected in them.
His throat had been slit. He had bleed to death in a few minutes. I can't say if he suffered; my neck has never been cut open before. Nor could Jean-Guy Lestrange say anything about how much Michael had suffered; he was merely following his sadistic instincts when he had swooped down on Michael McManus with that menacing dagger of his.
Lestrange now stood back, watching the scene with glittering eyes. His burly hands were covered with sticky blood. He rather liked killing with his hands; there was something triumphant in the sweet smell of fresh blood.
But that was the Muggle way, he reminded himself, Using a wand is showing your true powers. He wiped the blood on his robes. The crimson liquid shone dully in the light of the candle on Michael's desk, which resembled a lighthouse in the sea of blood. Jean-Guy found the similarity gruesomely pleasant, in his twisted mind.
Jean-Guy was now opening filing cabinets at random, throwing open cupboards and searching shelves. It had to be here. After he had totalled the room and not found it, he ran back out into the corridor.
"Leonie!" he called into the darkness, "Leonie, they're not here!"
Leonie Lestrange came out of the office next to Michael's, "Try the room down at the end of the hall."
Leonie watched him disappear into the shadows, then turned back to the office.
"Sorry about that. What did you say your name was? Dawn? I'm Leonie Lestrange," she addressed the dark-skinned woman curled up in the corner. Her accent hinted that she was French, "Do you know who that man was?" Dawn shook her head slowly.
Leonie sneered at the woman and stepped closer to her, "That was my husband, Jean-Guy. Do you know how long we've been in this hell hole?"
Dawn took a deep breath, gathering her courage, "What kind of an interrogation is this?"
"Who has the wand, my dear?" Leonie twirled Dawn's wand around, pink sparks flying from it; she had forced it from her when she had broken into her office. Dawn rubbed her swollen eye, recalling Leonie's hard fist colliding with her face.
"We have been here for fifteen years," Leonie continued causally, striding over to Dawn's desk and picking up a framed picture. It showed Dawn eating a sundae in Diagon Alley, laughing with a small girl sitting beside her, "Is this your daughter?"
"My little sister, Aurora," Dawn whispered, her voice cracking a bit.
Leonie cocked her hand, eyeing the photo. Her face twitched, momentarily forming itself into a look of pity, "I had a younger sister. Her name was Therese. She was 'accidentally' killed when Ministry Officials raided my home. Heartless bastards," Leonie dropped the picture, not even flinching as the blue frame shattered. Dawn bit down on her lip to keep from crying out.
"How would you feel if someone murdered Aurora?" Leonie ran her dirty fingers along Dawn's wand. Ash, Dawn remembered, 11 inches, with dragon scales. It pained her to watch this monster holding it. It was hers. Her magic. Her life was that simple wand.
Leonie ignored Dawn's silence, "Or rather, how would Aurora feel if you were brutally slaughtered?" Leonie raised the wand and brought it down in a graceful arch, leaving a trail of golden dust that fell to the faded carpet like rain.
Dawn squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to notice the burning in her right eye, "What do you want from me?"
Leonie clapped her hands, visibly pleased, "Why, you're smarter than you look! That's wonderful! I don't need to threaten you at all. Where do they keep the inmate's wands?"
"What?" Dawn pulled herself up onto her knees, wincing slightly. It felt as though her ribs were bruised.
"When my husband and I," Leonie hissed, carefully watching Dawn, "were thrown in here, they took our wands away. Where are they?"
Dawn licked her lip, hoping not to taste blood; "They destroyed them."
Leonie frowned, "How?"
"Burned them," Dawn was now on her feet, though slightly hunched over in pain.
Leonie flexed her fingers. For a wild moment, Dawn thought she was going to curse her out of pure rage.
Instead, Leonie called out to the hallway, "Jean-Guy, don't bother looking. This witch here says they burned our wands."
The broad shouldered man poked his head into the office, "What?"
"I said," Leonie sighed and waved Dawn's wand again, "that they burned our wands. This one here belongs to the dear woman in the corner who probably has the keys to open any lock in this bloody place." She spoke slowly and carefully, as though ordering a child about.
Jean-Guy grunted and glared at Dawn, "Mademoiselle, I believe we could use your help. Can you open the cell doors?"
Dawn let out a shuddering breath, trying to concentrate, "I'll need my wand."
Leonie ran her tongue along her teeth, "We will be getting it back, no?"
"Why, of course, Madame," Dawn spat. Leonie frowned slightly.
"Right, then," Jean-Guy strode across the room and pulled Dawn up by her shoulders, causing her to squeal, in both pain and surprise.
"Be nice, Jean-Guy," Leonie smirked as her husband grabbed Dawn beneath the arms and half-carried, half-dragged, her out into the main corridor.
Dawn choked as soon as she left her office. She usually had an anti-Dementor spell on her, so she couldn't feel their effect on her, but that was broken as soon as Leonie had taken her wand. Everything was cold, all of a sudden. It reminded her of the sensation she had felt when she had accidentally walked through the ghost of a Highlander in her uncle's castle. Only this was ten times as icy and tingling. What she found even more eerie was that there were no Dementors.
"Where are the guards?" she said hoarsely.
"They took off about an hour ago, didn't they, Leonie?"
"Yes. Just walked right out of Azkaban."
"Feels right cheerful without them, don't it, Mademoiselle?"
Dawn couldn't tell if they were joking or not, "What do you mean, they took off?"
Leonie grinned at her, "Up and walked away. You see, Lord Voldemort called them."
"P...pardon?"
She heard Jean-Guy laugh behind her, "Leonie, you didn't tell her? Shame on you. Mademoiselle, we are the Lestranges, only the most famous Death-Eaters in Azkaban, except for, perhaps, the so-called Sirius Black. We were among Voldemort's most powerful followers."
Dawn could have hit herself. Leonie and Jean-Guy Lestrange! Of course! Where were her wits?
"How'd you get out?" Dawn glared at Leonie.
"Oh," Leonie gave a harsh laugh, "We've known how to get out of the cells for years. It was just the obstacle of getting past the Dementors that was the tough part. But now that Lord Voldemort has called them, we can be freed! And will be given power beyond all our sweetest dreams..." She trailed off.
They came out of the passage way a few seconds later. There was a huge metal staircase, then a landing with two more staircases leading up towards the walls. The cells were sent into the concrete walls, and shelf like balconies jutted off them. Numerous staircases wove metal beams above their heads. A few prisoners were screaming, the voices bouncing off the cement, howling and screeching. Not a single Dementor was in sight.
"Sounds like the doormat of Hell," Dawn said simply.
Leonie chuckled again, or at least a cough of amusement escaped her mouth, "That's because it is, dearie."
"And you're," Jean-Guy let go of her, "going to let them out." He motioned for Leonie to give her the wand.
Dawn chewed her lip, "Why?"
Leonie leaned up close to her; "We're insane."
"I can see that much," Dawn replied, "But that's not a very plausible motive, is it?"
"Oh," Leonie's face dropped, "And I was so hoping that I wouldn't have to threaten you."
Dawn heard Leonie hiss a spell, and was knocked to the ground. She let out a cry of agony; her left shoulder bone had shattered.
Jean-Guy pulled her to her feet, despite her protests, "We can hurt you much worse. We are Death-Eaters."
Dawn studied them through her teary eyes; Leonie glared right back. Her stare came from under thick black eyebrows that reminded Dawn of caterpillars.
What would Aurora do if I were murdered? Dawn thought, No, do I really what to think about that?
Dawn reached out her hand for the wand; "Can I fix my shoulder first?"
"No," Leonie held the wooden piece back.
Dawn sighed, "Fine. I won't. And I'll give it right back." Leonie tossed it to her.
Knowing she would regret this as soon as she did it, Dawn raised the wand and spoke into the noise of the prisoners, "Harbodium Nostatus, Liberatos Tuttium!" Dawn held her breath. To be truthful, she wasn't sure if this was the actual spell to open up the doors of Azkaban. She was Michael's secretary, and it was only through poking about in Michael's files that she even knew about such an incantation.
Nothing had happened yet. The screams were still echoing, and Dawn still felt the sensation of drowning in freezing water.
Leonie whirled on her, "I thought you said you could do it!" Dawn opened her mouth to defend herself, but something stopped her.
Azkaban was quiet, all of a sudden. The lack of sound was even more terrifying than the noise had been. The only thing heard was what sounded like a faint rushing, the same sound one hears when holding lying in bed, having just awoken from a vivid nightmare; when you aren't breathing or moving, just listening to the darkness.
Click. Click. Click.
Rapid noises began overhead. Dawn jerked her face up, searching for the source.
Click. Click. Click.
It was the grating sound of metal on metal. Someone hooted wildly, and quick footsteps resounded throughout the building.
Dawn suddenly realised what was happening about the same time as everyone else. The latches of the cells were popping open.
The prisoners of Azkaban were prisoners no longer.
* * *
Dilnavaz stared moodily out of her window. The grounds stretched out in front of her, moonlight flowing over it, making the shadows of the Forbidden Forest stand out eerily. She could see the Quidditch pitch and it's dark stands.
She had been at Hogwarts for one day. One, long, trying day. And now she couldn't sleep.
She was definitely drowsy, at the point of fatigue where one's thoughts blur and lines between reality and imagination disintegrate. But she still couldn't sleep.
Every time she tried to close her eyes, she saw her daughters and Mohinder. Or Remus, standing in the graveyard in Devon, glaring at her with those beautiful honey-brown eyes.
No! Not beautiful! Not lovely honey-brown! He was Remus. He had betrayed her. Like Peter did to Lily and James.
Her eyes drifted up to the sky. The stars seemed to twinkle like lanterns. Like thousands of lanterns parading through a stream of black sky.
Minerva McGonagall had shown her around Hogwarts that day. No, she corrected herself, Yesterday. It was nearly 2 o'clock now. Today was the 31st. Tomorrow Parvati and Padma would be here.
When Minerva had pointed out where the staff room and bathrooms were, Dilnavaz had to try and keep from yawning. She had attended Hogwarts with Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs. No room was secret to them, and in the last two years they had spent here she had accompanied them on a few of their adventures. One escapade with a plugged toilet and a pair of Flitwick's socks stood out in her memory.
She tore her eyes away from the window to take another look at her room. The bedroom in her flat wasn't as nice as this, she had to admit.
It was entirely stone, but a had a pretty area carpet with a lotus and tortoise border; Hindu symbols of Earth. The tapestries were definitely Indian; they depicted various Hindu gods and goddesses. Dilnavaz reached out and touched the silky threads of the one nearest her; it was of Devi and her lion, advancing towards a buffalo demon. The image moved, of course. She could she the lion throwing back its head of rich, tawny gold.
She ran her fingers along it, walking past it to the door. This lead to her office, which one reached by going down a flight of stone steps. The stairs were only accessible by saying the correct password to open up a doorway in the panelling of her office. It had a kind of secret thrill about it, the kind of thrill that only Hogwarts had. There was something awe-inspiring in the dusty magic that the very walls of the castle seemed to hold.
Dilnavaz turned to go back to her bed. She had taken Romulus' advice and brought her own bedding. The faded roses on the cover clashed with the bright blues and vibrant reds of the room. She compulsively flicked one of the pale yellow yarn ties on it.
She reached for her wand on the bedside table as she climbed back in. She had suddenly remembered a sleeping spell.
She tapped her temple and was just able to drop her wand back on her cabinet before slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * *
Dawn spun around and flew out of the chamber like a bat out of Hell. The dull pain in her shoulder throbbed as she hurried back down the corridor.
"Michael!" she screamed, nearing his office, "Michael! Where are you? They're escaping!" She dashed through the open door and screamed again.
The sight of her slaughtered boss and the smell of blood overpowered her, and she stumbled back into the hallway, gasping and sobbing.
She ran the opposite direction of the main area of Azkaban. In this bearing, the hall sloped down and towards the main doors. Dawn threw herself against them and burst onto the rocky shore.
The cold, sea air hit her like a ton of bricks. She felt a little sobered by it, but the image of Michael, limp and blood drenched, remained fresh in her mind.
What was she going to do?
She tentatively glanced back at Azkaban, the grey walls shooting up towards the sky. She could hear mingling yells inside. The sound made her want to be sick.
They'll be coming right through those bloody doors any minute now. All thousand or so of those inmates will come stampeding out onto the shore, she thought.
"Sod it all," she hissed, clutching her shoulder and stumbling down the rocks to the water's edge. The sea, a murky green in the darkness, lapped lightly against it.
I still have my wand, Dawn realised. She gingerly opened her hand, suddenly appreciating its light touch on her dark skin. She hadn't let Leonie take it back.
Dawn hissed the Disapparation spell, and as she disappeared, the doors burst open.