Summary: A story of quiet desperation. A teen wrongly sent to Azkaban because of fear is rescued by a rather dubious hero… namely Voldemort. After he was stripped of emotion by the Dementors, Voldemort makes a promise to the boy…. "We'll teach you to feel again…" Faced with a choice between certain death and falling to Darkness, the teen to be Voldemort's heir must choose.
A teen sat huddled in a dark cell in Azkaban, listening to the rainfall outside. It fell through the open window, coating his tattered shirt and jeans and his dark hair lay plastered against his face, dripping down to his chin. There were drier places in the cell, certainly, but he didn't care. He was beyond caring about much at this point. He was never getting out, and the rain somehow seemed to ground him: connecting him to a world that he had used to know.
With any luck, the tickle in the back of his throat would develop into pneumonia, and he would die in this cell, carefully left alone by his captors until he was dead. At least, that would save him the trouble of slitting his wrists or throat with the obsidian knife that he had hammered out of a piece of rock from the floor. He fingered the knife, watching as a trickle of crimson oozed from a new cut on his index finger. At least it was sharp, in a place where neither color, nor thought, nor anything else was.
The tickle developed into a cough. Pneumonia already? What a truly noble solution that was. Sarcasm became second nature for the boy after the first week of incarceration, even when talking to himself. "You're not even brave enough to off yourself, you have to wait for some bacteria to do it," he whispered.
A cold chill came over the teen, and he pulled a threadbare blanket around him closer, before he recognized the now familiar sensation of a Dementor sweeping past. Two, in fact, dragged a new prisoner down the hallway, and pausing at the cell next to his. The man's screams shattered the quiet solitude provided by the rainstorm and the boy sighed. At least he hadn't screamed. He'd passed out instead. Too many intensely painful memories, he decided. He listened as the door shut and locked, the screams subsiding to whispers as the guards left.
"This can't be happening…" an older man's voice came from the cell beside him.
"Believe me. Yes, it is happening," the teen prisoner whispered hoarsely to his new neighbor. "This is as real as it gets in Azkaban."
Shuffling could be heard from the cell next to him, as the man leaned closer to the wall. "Who are you?"
"I am not allowed to speak my name in this place. They fear its power that much. But like it matters whether or not I tell you. In three weeks, you'll be just like the last man to be in that cell. Hung himself with his own trousers, that one did," he retorted, hitting his fist gently against the outside wall and laughing bitterly.
The other man audibly gulped. "How long have you been here?"
"It depends," he said, moving away from the now rat-infested cot. "What day is it?"
"November 17th."
The boy smiled, and chuckled. "Well then. In that case, nearly 5 months."
"Five months in this place? And you're still, still coherent?" he asked in awe.
"You mean sane? Yeah, I suppose comparatively, I have a vast majority of my marbles. But that doesn't mean that I'm the same person that I was when I came in. The person I was died at the threshold of the fortress," he said, moving back to his place under the window.
There was silence in the prison, except for the patter of raindrops, and the rolling of distant thunder, until the man whispered, "My master will come get me out of this place."
"Yeah, and I'm Miss America," the teen muttered darkly, falling asleep without a single star in the sky.
Sleep came for the wizard as it always did: like a freight train that wouldn't budge. He didn't dream anymore. No release from the reality of the gray and black, stone walls came for the dark-haired teen. This room, this cell, this hole was to be his home for the rest of his natural life because of three spells that he hadn't even cast. They claimed he had used the Killing Curse on a husband and wife Auror team, after torturing the woman with Cruciatus. It was his wand. It had been found at the scene, never mind the fact that he had been unable to find it for a week before the murders.
No amount of protestation from him had done anything: Azkaban for life, without trial or any chance of clemency from the Minister. If he so much as mentioned the specifics of his case, or spoke his name, he would be given the Kiss. But he was innocent, and surely God would deliver an innocent man, he told himself as the rain fell, every day and every night.
The teen awoke and pushed himself out of the straw heap he had been sleeping in again. It was nearly a month since the new prisoner arrived in the cell beside him, but the days ran together, and so he could not really tell. The sky flashed with lightning outside as well as in, and thunder reverberated through the fortress. But it was not the storm that concerned him so much as the sound of footsteps outside the door. The Dementors didn't wear shoes.
It was then that the boy realized the color of the lightning outside his door, but inside the castle, was green. A color he knew all too well. It was the color of the Killing Curse. Dementors didn't use the Killing Curse.
The footsteps paused outside his door and the boy froze, unwilling to breathe. For someone too depressed to live, he seemed to have great motivation to survive this. He wandlessly changed the color of his eyes to brown and lengthened his hair.
"Lucius, find my imprisoned servants," a slightly serpentine voice said. "My friends, I cannot thank you enough for your help in opening your prison to my servants this night. You shall be rewarded for your loyalty when the fruits of our labor are realized."
Oh, crap the swimsuit competition is over and where's my tiara? Voldemort is breaking out his servants. And I am sitting right in front of him.
The cell next to him opened and the man, slightly shaking from the proximity of the Dementors, kneeled before Voldemort. "I knew that you would come for us, Master."
"Oh, my faithful Avery. Are you ready to return to life from this tomb?" he asked, caressing the man's face.
"Yes, my Lord."
"You are quite calm, considering the state of the other prisoners. How?"
"The boy in that cell, My Lord. He helped keep me sane," Avery admitted, pointing almost directly at him, through the door.
The teenager froze and backed into the corner.
"Nott. McNair. Bring this child here."
Two men in black cloaks threw open the cell door and saw him. Instead of gesturing for him to come, the younger of the two, Nott, grabbed him by the shoulders, pulled him roughly to his feet and thrust him out the door. The teen landed nearly on his face in front of Voldemort.
Voldemort looked decidedly different than the last time the boy had seen him. Gone were his snake-like facial features, replaced by his normal human face, save for the scarlet eyes, now in human form. He looked like just another wizard in his mid-forties, but grown from the features of his youth. "Who are you, boy?"
"No one of consequence. Just another innocent in prison for life."
"He never told me his name, milord. He said he was forbidden to say it," Avery said quietly.
Voldemort approached the Dementors. "Who is he?"
The Dementor closest to him pulled out a piece of parchment and indicated one of the names on it with a single finger.
Voldemort turned back to the boy and smiled. "Azkaban at 16. I am impressed. Just how badly did you anger the Almighty?" he asked, chuckling. He placed his hand under the teen's chin and lifted the face gently to look into his eyes. Brown eyes met crimson, and he continued. "I never expected that we would meet in this place, old friend."
"I told you before, Voldemort, I am innocent. I am not old, neither have I ever been your friend," he replied, glaring hotly, as his tangled black hair fell in his eyes and down to his jaw.
"It says here that the Dementors have the authorization to administer the kiss if you so much as speak the name your parents gave you. Signed by Fudge himself. The Ministry fears you that much?" Voldemort said playfully. "If I but ask that favor of them, I am certain the Dementors would be willing to oblige."
"Do I look like a person who cares? I'm dead already. So what do you want from this living corpse?" He asked, pushing himself to a kneeling position, which is as far as McNair let him get.
"I want to help you, dear boy. You know, it's startling how alike we are. Both orphaned, never truly knowing our parents. Growing up in the worst place imaginable. Finding our wizarding heritage and…"
"Who was it that orphaned me again?" the teen spat before Nott cuffed him.
The boy coughed heavily and spat blood onto the pristine flagstones.
"Now, now Nott. This boy does us no good bloodied. He is right; I have orphaned many. I was merely pointing out similarities. My friend, you would do wise to hold your tongue until I finish." He paused, as the boy coughed further. "You hate the Ministry now too, don't you?"
The boy sucked in a deep breath, calming his aching chest. "I do not hate. Hatred only feeds them," he said, indicating the guards. "I'm incapable of love, joy, anger, loathing, or envy at this point. I have stopped feeling anything but annoyance. I get annoyed when the rats invade my bed because it is the only dry thing in the cell. I get annoyed when it rains through the window and soaks me in the cold. I get annoyed when the new arrivals scream day and night for 3 weeks until they finally go mad."
Voldemort kneeled and took the boy's pale, emaciated face in both slender, warm hands, gently rubbing the delicate cheekbones and jaw. "You will come with us, after we destroy this place. Don't worry. We'll teach you to feel again. You have my word," he said, nodding his head at the wizard behind the teen as he backed up. "You know, your eyes look much better their original color."
"Stupefy!" a voice said, and he knew no more.
The next thing he heard was the word, "Ennervate."
The boy attempted to move from the middle of the cold stone floor, but found rather quickly that his hands were cuffed tightly behind his back. His lip had been split and was throbbing with every heartbeat. Blood also flowed from a cut on his right temple, which meant that it just happened to run straight across his eyes and down to the floor on the left side of his face. He must have hit the floor hard when he was Stunned.
His feet were similarly bound as well, but with rope instead of metal. Too bad his obsidian knife lay 6 feet away, high on a windowsill. A set of footsteps came from behind him, and the boy wished he were back in Azkaban.
A tall man with light brown hair came into view, walking around the teen's feet. "Hello again," Avery said, kneeling down beside him. "No one can use any kind of magic in these cells except stunning and ennervation spells without the Master's presence, so I brought some water to clean you up." He brought out a small pile of clean cloths and dipped one into the bowl of water in front of him. "You know, you're younger than I thought at first. I would have suspected at least 19. You're actually closer to my own boy's age. There's something I've wanted to say to you for a month now. Thank you for helping me in that place." Avery gently wiped the blood from the boy's lip first.
"Life has made me older than my years would claim," the boy retorted, choking down a cough. "Why am I being held like this?"
Avery paused to wring out the cloth. "Another one of the rules. No one gets free run of the Manor unless he is a Death Eater. You aren't one of us, hence you stay here until you join the Master's service. Oh. Nott apologizes for your head. The Master also regrets it."
"Nott should bloody well apologize," the teen muttered.
Avery wiped the water from the boy's forehead with one of the cloths, then started bandaging it. His hand casually brushed it, and he felt a fever. "Are you sick?"
The boy did not answer, just coughed violently and Avery frowned. "I put you in dry clothes when we first arrived. You couldn't have gotten sick that fast, unless you were already ill." He got to his feet and walked out, to find his Master.
New surroundings, only now he was dying. It felt as though fluid was filling his lungs, trapping him to drown in his own blood. And dying in Voldemort's stronghold was not something that he wanted to contemplate.
Seemingly an eternity later, Avery returned, with his Master, and Severus Snape. Not quite able to ignore the presence of his new captor, he took a deep breath, only to begin coughing again, creating a small pool of blood on the floor.
Snape kneeled down beside him and looked him over. "He's pale, sweaty, and besides the blood, he's still having difficulty breathing. It might be pneumonia, but with that much blood, I'd say it's probably tuberculosis." He moved the boy's head so that he could look into the boy's eyes.
"And just think, Avery. I had just gotten used to the thought of dying in that cell in Azkaban and you change the scenery."
"Milord, he needs medical help," Snape whispered.
"What do you suggest, Severus? Take an Azkaban escapee to St. Mungo's and hope that the Aurors don't show?" Avery hissed.
"I could… take him to Hogwarts," he admitted.
"To Dumbledore?" Voldemort spat the name.
"My Lord," Snape replied gently. "I promise you that he will be returned here unharmed when he is well."
"You know the rules, Severus. He doesn't leave here until he chooses to join us."
"My Lord, he could die within the fortnight if he is untreated."
Voldemort knelt beside the boy and lifted his face very gently. "My dear child, I know the pain of being alone in this world. Not only did the Ministry not learn from me, but they have destroyed your life as well. Together, we could stop the cycle of pain, and make certain that they never let another like us be made. The chance to make things right, but only if you take action. The choice is yours," he whispered, looking into his brown eyes again. "Be my heir?"
The boy coughed again bringing up blood into a cloth in Voldemort's hand, and Voldemort rubbed his back gently until the fit subsided. The teen nodded reluctant assent.
Voldemort smiled and drew his wand, releasing the boy, and then gathered him into his arms in a hug. "Hold out your left arm."
Snape and Avery watched the teen weakly comply, leaning back against a wall where Voldemort set him. "Signo mei serpens."
Remembering his own Initiation, Snape flinched a bit, as the boy's flesh burned into the shape of the Dark Mark. The boy did not make a sound, but Snape did not expect him to. The boy was getting worse by the moment and it was surprising that he hadn't passed out from the pain. As Snape began to help the boy to his knees to kiss his new Master's robes, Voldemort stopped him.
"No, Severus. He shall not kiss my robes. Take him to Hogwarts; you have three days. Remember well the promises you have made today, my son," Voldemort commanded, lowering the boy's sleeve again.
Snape nodded and gently lifted the teen to his feet. The three bowed as Voldemort left, and Snape DisApparated with the new servant.
Next chapter: To Hogwarts!
See the little button to the bottom left? Review… It will motivate me to post more often… and yes, this fic has already been finished. It's the first in a trilogy I am writing. Post GOF (of course).