An Angel's Tears
Prologue: In Azkaban
Emerald eyes glimmered slightly, peering out of the dark shadows that hid their owner. Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger shifted guiltily, hiding behind Professor Dumbledore, as it were. The eyes closed, vanishing from sight. The cell might have been empty.
A hollow laugh echoed from within the cell. "What do you want?" he asked. "Come to rub it in?"
"Harry-" Ron began, unsure of what to say, what to do. How to justify his easy denunciation of his once-best friend, two years ago.
"Everyone does," Harry continued, seemingly not hearing him. "They all do. They come and they stare at me and no one believes me. But it's true, and it isn't, and they won't know. And he'll kill them. I'll kill them."
Hermione took a step back involuntarily, one hand going to her mouth as she suppressed a sob. A Dementor moved closer and she shuddered, feeling its icy coldness wash over him again.
"Can't you hear them? He'll kill them. They won't know, but it's true. He'll hurt them. Help her. Listen, can't you hear her? Her screams? She can't see, I can't see, he's dead. Help them, help them, help them. Kill me."
Dumbledore signed the paper the Dementor held out to him, frowning at it until it glided over to the cell. A low moan issued from beneath its hood, one of anger that it would be losing its favourite meal. The look in Dumbledore's eyes brooked no argument, however. With a click, the door swung open. The Dementor moved away, down the corridor, leaving the three with Harry.
"Harry? You can come out now. You're free, Harry," Dumbledore said softly. "They proved you were innocent. Severus and Draco managed to uncover the truth, that it was Ms. Parkinson who killed Minerva. You're free."
There was a sound from within the cell, of cloth rustling. Harry uncoiled himself from his crouched position on the floor slowly. For the first time, the trio standing in the corridor caught sight of the boy they had condemned to Azkaban.
"Is that so?" he asked them quietly, tilting his head to the side quizzically. "I suppose I owe them, then." A ghost of a smile crossed his face, and they saw his eyes. They were not dead. Far better if they were. No, they were alight with an insane fervour, one which frightened all of them. Dumbledore couldn't help but wonder if they were doing the right thing, setting him free.
"It's good," he said simply. Long, matted black hair hung limply around his gaunt, pale face. "It has to be. I'm not mad. I'm not. Not. Human, I'm not."
Shaking with guilt and fear, Albus Dumbledore led Harry Potter, the Boy-who-Once-Lived, out to taste freedom.
