MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN

A STUDY ON PERSPECTIVE

*

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN

MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS "RALLYING POINT"
 FOR OLD DEATH EATERS

The Ministry of Magic announced late last night that

there has been a mass breakout from Azkaban.

Speaking to reporters in his private office, Cor-

nelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, confirmed that ten

high-security prisoners escaped in the early hours of

yesterday evening, and that he has already informed

the Muggle Prime Minister of the dangerous nature

of these individuals.

"We find ourselves, most unfortunately, in the

same position we were two and a half years ago when

the murderer Sirius Black escaped," said Fudge last

night. "Nor do we think the two breakouts are unre-

lated. An escape of this magnitude suggests outside

help, and we must remember that Black, as the first

person ever to break out of Azkaban, would be ideally

placed to help others follow in his footsteps. We think

it likely that these individuals, who include Black's

cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, have rallied around Black

as their leader. We are, however, doing all we can to

round up the criminals and beg the magical commu-

nity to remain alert and cautious. On no account

should any of these individuals be approached."

*

Severus Snape grimaced as he tossed his copy of the Daily Prophet onto the table in front of him, nearly upsetting Sprout's orange juice. He ignored the dirty look the squat witch gave him as he sat back in his chair, feeling a strangely unattached to the world around him as the morning's headlines took their own sweet time in registering in his mind... 'Mass Breakout from Azkaban...'

This marked the beginning... the true, true beginning of the Dark Lord's return... the rebirthing ceremony months before was merely a symbolic action, a superficial sort of announcement to the allies of the Dark of the coming of the second war – but now, with the return of the Dark Lord's most loyal, most willing to die, the war had truly begun, and the soldiers aligned themselves on the battlefield... already, the old Death Eaters were being gathered – Antonin Dolohov, Augustus Rookwood, Rabastan Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix Lestrange... and not to mention the dementors, as well – for if ten Death Eaters had indeed escaped Azkaban, it could not have been done unless the dementors had willingly allowed them to leave... if the dementors had turned away from the Ministry... if they were in the service of the Dark Lord...

His eyes glanced over the pictures of the ten convicts, whom blinked up at him coldly as he gave an involuntary shiver that went unnoticed by the rest of the staff, who were much too absorbed in their own hushed whispers to pay any attention to what he was doing. He looked at the faces of the Death Eaters, all so familiar, and yet, so different from when he had last seen them. He looked at the faces of the ten servants of the Dark Lord, faces that he had once seen on an almost daily basis, faces that had once made him feel accepted and comfortable, instead of uneasy and afraid... they had all been classmates, comrades, fellow Slytherins... the word 'friends' almost came to mind but Severus squashed it down immediately. Those of the House of cunning and ambition did not have friends... friends were for the sentimental fools of Gryffindor.

Perhaps the last statement was a bit cynical on Severus' part, but as he reflected upon the shattered remnants of what could almost be called his life, he knew it to be the truth. Friends got you nothing except a nice marble tombstone in a deserted graveyard where not even crows would land their droppings. His father had always told him this, and he had always listened and fervently agreed with much nodding of the head, but only now, only after thirty-five years of miserable existence, did he realize how true – how wretchedly true – it was.

For years, he had envied James Potter. Potter had been talented, yes, and did have some amount of talent on the Quidditch field, but beyond that, Potter was... popular. He hated himself for thinking this – what did other people's opinions matter to him? And yet he remembered how, with an aching sense of longing, how he had longed for... companionship? For... for... he couldn't even put words into what it was he wanted – he only needed someone to be there for him, someone who would sympathize with him, respect him, someone who would stand by his side and laugh when it was his turn to flip someone in the air and reveal their underwear to the world. It was odd how the idea of being able to be dependent on someone else was so simultaneously appealing and revolting to him. He sneered inwardly, feeling weak and almost embarrassed at himself for ever feeling the need to rely on another person. For it was now that he truly realized the cost of friendship, the cost of feeling any impartiality towards someone other than oneself – because in the end, it had cost James Potter his life.

So, no, he had never really considered the Death Eaters featured in the article his friends, not in the way that Potter had considered Black to be his friend, not in a way that would bind him spiritually to another person. What good did friendship do? When they fell, you fell too, and when you rose, they dragged you down, slowing your progress; sprinters did not run marathons with weights tied to their ankles, and so it was with Severus – he needed to run, and could not afford to be held back, not when he needed so desperately to get away, to retreat... it was almost as if his entire life, he had tried to shield himself from the world, from the outstretched arms of people... for who did he care about other than himself? He constantly shied away from the tentacles of companionship, from dependency, from interaction – and it was because of this, this lack of friendship, this stoicism that ran through his soul that prevented him from feeling any compassion for his former schoolmates. He felt pity for them, yes... he pitied any living soul that had come within a ten-mile radius of Azkaban (with the possible exception of Sirius Black) – but he could not bring himself to feel compassion, sympathy, empathy – whatever you wanted to call it – towards the people whose paths he had alienated himself from so long ago when he had chosen to work for Albus Dumbledore... he had associated with them in school, yes, but the same introversion that had successfully warded off all potential friends also kept him apart from the only other people who would have accepted him. He had isolated himself in his own little bubble of half-life – and it was because of this that now, at the age of thirty-five, he found himself utterly alone, a fence sitter, straddling two sides of the wall between the light and the dark. He was the line across the two halves of the playing board. He was the gray in a world drawn completely in black and white. There was no place for him. He had made sure of that – he had created for himself an anti-place. There was nowhere for him, and therefore nothing in him for anyone else... and that is why he found, with a small amount of surprise, that he could really care less about the fates of his classmates whom he would once have tried to defend, if only for the sake of superficiality...

His upper lip curled into a sneer as he read the article lying in front of him for the third time and suppressed the urge to snort. Black break the Death Eaters out of Azkaban indeed... the stupid imbecile was probably hiding away in his mother's house arguing with that senile fool of a house-elf who served him. There was no way on Earth a man like Sirius Black would ever have been clever enough to help ten high-security prisoners escape from Azkaban – if it weren't for his idiotic rule-breaking at school and the fact that Lupin was a werewolf, Black wouldn't have even been able to haul his own sad ass out of Azkaban. He would be locked up, rotting away in a cell far, far away from England... Severus almost relished the thought of it. Almost.

It saddened him, really, how he could no longer even take pleasure from Black's pain, as he used to... it was a perverse pleasure, he knew, but pleasure, none the less. Somehow, the idea that Sirius Black – the man that so many had once regarded as handsome and charismatic – was suffering and starving, while he, Snape was warm and (relatively) comfortable had been very appealing. In his heart of hearts, he knew it was a rather sick thought, but it was extremely likable... Severus found the situation quite ironic – how years ago, it had been Black who had fooled everyone into thinking he had everything, and it had been Severus who had been trapped, suffering and starving – most often emotionally, but sometimes physically. But now, today, it was Sirius Black who had been trapped, who had spent twelve desolate years rotting away in despair and hunger, and it was Severus Snape who lived, who put on a façade of contentment to the world, who pretended to be normal. Had he been a younger and more foolish man, he could very easily have amused himself to no end by thinking of the poetic justice of what had happened to Black... but somehow, something about what had happened to the other man struck a little bit too close to home for Severus... the feeling of abandonment, of hatred, of gloom and dust and stench and cold... it was all too familiar to Snape, and to revel in this part of Sirius Black's life would be almost like looking at a reflection of himself – it would be too painful to recall the other's man misery, because for every drop of pain in Black's eyes, Severus knew that the same amount of suffering would be reflected in his own.

Shaking these thoughts of Sirius Black from his head, Severus jabbed morosely at his eggs, trying hard to avoid the stony glares of his former housemates that were radiating at him from the abandoned copy of the Daily Prophet. As he looked out among the sea of students, all so oblivious to the happenings of the real world, of the danger that was looming upon them all, he, too, felt strangely calmed and slowly felt himself come drifting back to Earth, to sanity, away from the darkness and desperation that haunted him, away from the pain and the past... he felt himself moving towards here and now, and the feeling of being unattached dissipated, lifting off his shoulders like a cloak that was a few sizes too large. He carefully placed the mask of cool indifference back onto his face, not letting a single emotion show through his features. Life would go on, whether or not he wanted it to, he reminded himself. There was no use brooding over it.

Besides, he had a long day of teaching Potions ahead of him...

Madam Rosmerta felt all the blood drain out of her face as she stared at the copy of the Daily Prophet clutched tightly in her left hand. It couldn't be true, it just couldn't – how could ten Death Eaters, ten servants of You-Know-Who, have escaped Azkaban, the unconquerable wizard prison Azkaban? She felt her head spin slightly as she lowered herself into a chair, kneading her throbbing temples with her pale, suddenly cold fingers.

She couldn't believe it. Ten Death Eaters escaped from Azkaban? What was going on? How could the Minister have let something like this happen? How could ten, ten, of the highest security prisoners escape from a place like Azkaban? Until now, the idea had been unthinkable. It was like something in her world had shattered, letting forth a flood of emotions, mostly anxiety and worry, but there were also hints of fear, curiosity, and... anger? It was overwhelming.

She mentally berated herself, telling herself to calm down. It wasn't as if You-Know-Who was back. Of course he wasn't. Both the Minister and the Daily Prophet reported that there was no reason to believe that the most feared Dark wizard of the century had regained power. No. No, Harry Potter had already defeated You-Know-Who, had already insured the safety of the wizarding world. A handful of Death Eaters was nothing the Ministry of Magic couldn't handle... so what if they had escaped? The dementors would find them eventually, and they would be thrown back in Azkaban where they belonged.

But if the dementors were guarding Azkaban and You-Know-Who was dead, how had the Death Eaters escaped? Madam Rosmerta ran her polished fingernails through her smooth brown hair, pondering. Had Sirius Black really returned to the dreaded wizard prison to facilitate the breakout of his fellow Dark wizards? This seemed to be the plausible explanation – after all, Black was the first person ever to break out of Azkaban, and he would be the one who had the most to gain from You-Know-Who's rebirth, wasn't he?

But it seemed to unsettling, so unsatisfactory, so wrong that this would be the explanation to the strange events that had been occurring lately. Indeed, to think that Sirius Black had turned to the Dark side was already disconcerting enough. The little boy had seemed so friendly, so different from his family, so kind, so... so happy. She shuddered as she recalled the naïveté that she had once associated with the name Sirius Black – how could she have been so mistaken? She should have seen something, something that told her that this boy – innocent as he seemed – would one day betray his friends and become the Dark Lord's most fearful servant. And she had never suspected... all those times, she had seen Black and James Potter together, talking, laughing, plotting... she had never imagined that one would be dead at the hand of another. She had never imagined that Black would one day hand over his best friend to You-Know-Who, kill thirteen innocents, ally himself with the servants of the Dark Side, help them escape from Azkaban... her eyes glazed back over the names of the Death Eaters, the ones whom she never would have thought to count Sirius Black among... Rodolphus Lestrange, Augustus Rookwood, Antonin Dolohov, Bellatrix Lestrange...

This, too, was strange. She almost laughed at the irony of it – had the Death Eaters really, as the article said, 'rallied around Black as their leader'? To think, these were the same Slytherins who had openly leered and jeered at Black in school, who had mockingly referred to him as 'blood-traitor' and 'muggle-lover'. She found it positively bizarre that Black's old school enemies would be gathering around him for leadership – for she could still recall with great vividness the enmity between the young Gryffindor boy and his peers in Slytherin. In particular, she remembered quite clearly the eminent hatred between the cousins Sirius and Bellatrix. Was it all just an act to throw people off guard? Was it all a charade, a well-written role for a convincing actor – or two convincing actors? No, it couldn't have been. Friendship could be feigned, especially by one as striking and captivating as Sirius Black had been, but the relationship that Black and Lestrange had had, that kind of animosity, the mutual rancor, the hallway duels, the slicing insults intended to pierce into the other's soul and draw blood – it was real. The two avoided each other like oil and water except when they met head to head in times of conflict. In fact, that was the only thing they had in common – they both loved to fight. With words, swords, wands, fists – whatever. It was all the same to them.

God... what was the world coming to? When the Ministry of Magic no longer had control of the most dangerous criminals to grace the community, when the savior of the wizarding world – the infamous Boy-Who-Lived – was being ridiculed daily by those whose futures he had salvaged, when seemingly innocent school boys became insane mass murderers, traitors, killers... Rosmerta gave a depressed sigh as she gazed out at the windows of the shop across the street – already, the Ministry had adorned the once-cheery windowpanes with the faces of the ten scowling Death Eaters, who frowned down upon the residents of Hogsmeade, scrutinizing and observing, yet haughty and bored, as they watched the ordinary citizens of the wizarding community going about their everyday lives.

And suddenly, she felt strangely alone, strangely vulnerable, strangely unprotected... for evil infiltrated the world in which they lived and left its essence on every living being, whether it was in knowledge, in death, in association... no one remained untouched. When – where – why did mankind develop this inborn, this ineradicable need to hurt, to kill, to feel the reins of usurped power in their hands? This she wondered as a lone, single tear made its way out of the corner of her eye and dripped off the tip of her nose.

The haughty, black-haired woman sneered as she read the article featured so prominently on the front page of the Daily Prophet – Ministry propaganda and Fudge-babble, every last word of it. She voluntarily withheld a snort as she re-read the lines towards the middle of the article – 'Black, as the first person ever to break out of Azkaban, would be ideally placed to help others follow in his footsteps...' Ridiculous. As if Bellatrix Lestrange would ever need – or accept, for that matter – help from her blood-traitor of a cousin, Sirius Black.

It was this, this bitter, bitter lie, this unfounded glory heaped upon Black that tainted the joy and pleasure of her freedom. Fourteen years... she had waited nearly fourteen years for her master to return, faithful until the end, unwilling to renounce the faith and hide under the pretenses of the Imperius Curse – fourteen long years she had spent rotting away in a place worth than hell, fourteen years she had suffered for her cause, fourteen years until she had been redeemed... and the moment, her moment of truth, of honor beyond honor, ruined by her filthy, good-for-nothing blood-traitor of a cousin. She was finally back at the Dark Lord's side, she had finally risen above the foolish trivialities of the Ministry imbeciles – all to have the credit and acclaim hoisted upon the undeserving shoulders of the Animagus Black. It was disgusting, how her unwavering loyalty, her darkness and strength, her power beyond power, went unrecognized.

It also was not the first time such had occurred – hadn't the wonderful Sirius Black always overshadowed the rest of his family? Hadn't everyone always spoken of how bright dear Sirius had been, how much potential he had, how clever he was? Perhaps it was the stigma of being associated with James Potter, or maybe it was his own natural charm, but Sirius had always attracted praise. Never mind that Regulus had had the same intense blue-gray eyes, Narcissa the same aristocratic grace, and Bellatrix the same prowess at dueling – it was Sirius who was regarded as special. Sirius the Gryffindor, Sirius the perfect angel, Sirius who ever-so-bravely turned away from his 'horrible, dark family' and ran away to the Potters – the scum-loving blood-traitor had abandoned his own family and sought refuge with Muggle-lovers... and yet everyone else ooh-ed and ahh-ed over how strong he must have been. Those idiots had always encouraged Black's traitorous ways and filthy habits – was it any wonder that the boy had turned out how he did? They had showered him with attention, with glory that was never shined upon those more pure, more deserving... but of course, Bellatrix remembered with a crooked smile, it was also they who turned against him, they who ruined him, who tore apart the remnants of his already shattered life, who renounced him, debased him, defiled his name... it was they who tossed his pale, limp body into the cold, drafty prison cell where he was to rot for the next twelve years...

It was actually rather ironic, in a terribly twisted fashion. Bellatrix's lips curled into a sneer as her dark eyes lingered upon her cousin's name, which had appeared so many times on the front page of the paper. It had been she, Bellatrix, who had remained loyal, who had tried to seek the Dark Lord out, who had refused to renounce him, who had braved Azkaban for him... she was his most devoted servant, she alone out of others deserved to stand in his presence... and yet it was Black was the Dark Lord's right-hand man? Bellatrix didn't know whether to curse or laugh at whichever poor idiot spread that rumor around. It was almost humorous, in a sadistic sense, that Black, who had defied his family and surrounded himself by Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers, had finally gotten the retribution he deserved at the hands of those he had considered friends, accused of associating with those he had openly condemned and criticized – Bellatrix scoffed. As if the Dark Lord and his servants would ever have accepted the likes of Black into their ranks... and yet, she could not help but feeling a tinge of jealousy toward the man. How was it that she, Bellatrix Lestrange, tutored personally by the Dark Lord himself in the noble Dark Arts, had strived so hard to establish herself as the Dark Lord's loyal servant, to mark the wizarding world with her presence and evoke fear from the hearts of the weak, while Black, foolish, stubborn git that he was, only had to be in the wrong place at the wrong time to be titled with the honor of being the Dark Lord's most dangerous follower? What had Black ever done to deserve the honor of being counted among the followers of the Dark? It was quite pitiful, really.

Bellatrix remembered seeing him for what had been the first time in more than five years as she was led to her cell in Azkaban. Battered, bloody, broken – so different from the sickeningly golden Gryffindor child he had once been. Had the moment not been so somber, she might even have deigned to smirk in his direction, to show him that even in this hell, she was still above him. But it had not been a time for smirking – it was a time for pride, for honor, for the kind of righteousness that a blood-traitor such as him could never understand. True, she had been condemned to a horrible fate, but it didn't matter; only her loyalty to her master did, and she knew she was doing him the ultimate service by making this kind of honorable sacrifice – and so she held her chin up high and glided like a queen, her gait graceful and expression regal, as she passed by her cousin's cell and felt his piercing blue eyes on her as she was unceremoniously shoved into the small, caged region and locked into what would be her home for the next fourteen years. Dirty, damp, and disgusting it was, but it was hers and fit for royalty – because it meant that she had been faithful, and she knew that one day, she would be rewarded for her undying fidelity to her master.

And she was right. The Dark Lord had succeeded – he had come back to full power and strength, had acquired a body again, had sought his allies and played his cards well. The dementors had joined their rightful leader – and Bellatrix and the others had been freed, released from their terror and welcomed back with open arms by their master, to whom they had remained loyal and had braved Azkaban for. And Bellatrix Lestrange, Bellatrix the woman warrior, was back, restored to her glory, and the reins of power were once more in her hands. She would show the world what it meant to be strong. She would show the world what it meant to be of the Dark. She would reveal to those too foolish to follow the depths of their weakness. She would prove to everyone that she was Bellatrix Lestrange, that she was one to fear, that she could take their lives with a casual flick of her wrist, a few well-chosen words, and a final flash of green light. She would stand at her master's side, tall and proud, as the world as conquered and bent to their will. She would be her Lord's right-hand woman.

Not Sirius Black.

She spat contemptuously on the newspaper article and swept away silently, holding a wand in her hand for the first time in fourteen years. She had work to do.

FINIS

*

His strength shall be hunger-bitten

And destruction shall be ready at his side

-Job, as qtd. in Black Boy, by Richard Wright