Disclaimer: I own nothing; if I did, I would be rich and famous and wouldn't be writing fan fiction.
CHAPTER THREE: POINTS OF AUTHORITY
I've started keeping track of the days as they go by. I found a small stone in one of the corners of my cell, over behind the cot-like excuse for a bed. It takes a while to make any indent on the thick stone walls of my cell, but I'm tired of sitting and thinking all day and any distraction I can get, any other way to pass the time, is certainly welcome. I know there have got to be at least a hundred wards and such on this God forsaken fortress that has recently become my home; I'm just glad they don't have one against making marks on the walls. I remember a movie I saw once when I was at the Dursley's; it was about a man who was wrongfully accused and dug his way out of a muggle prison, dug right through the prison wall. Of course, it took him over a decade to do and even then he had to carefully plan the rest of his escape. Even if the wards permitted me to do such a thing, it would take me at least ten years to do; by that time, I'll probably have been driven over the edge of sanity.
I know I'm slowly being driven crazy; I can't help it. I've only been here 14 days since I started counting, only two weeks (I know because I make a mark each time they bring my meal; which consists of a meager portion of stale bread and a cup of dirty water)--but I don't think I can take much more. I find myself, at times, losing all grasp on reality. Just yesterday I found myself talking to a spider as if it was an old friend of mine. Next thing you know I'll be talking to my marking rock.
The dementors aren't bothering me as much anymore. I guess I've completely given up any hope I had of somehow, miraculously escaping. I've stopped daydreaming about what it would be like to be back at Hogwarts, back in the outside world...I've finally come to terms with the harsh, cold reality of this cell. There are no longer any positive emotions left for the dementors to suck out of me. The dementors may have stopped bothering me...but the ministry officials sure as hell haven't, or at least they haven't stopped trying to bother me. By now, I've learned that it's too much trouble letting them get a rise out of me; I no longer care what they say, or think concerning me. Most of it is lies anyways, so it's easy to disregard.
I think they're surprised I'm still coherent, although I'm not sure that assesment is entirely true. But, for what it's worth, I am one of the sanest inmates here. Sometimes, when they lift the silencing charms around my cell I can hear them; screaming, moaning, sobbing, mumbling incoherent jibberish. It frightens me to think that in a couple of years I could be reduced to that state--here physically, but mentally gone.
Maybe it'd be easier that way. At least then I wouldn't be plagued by the painful memories that haunt me day and night. Besides, what point is there in being sane if it will come to no use to you? Perhaps insanity, like death, is a mercy in this place where darkness abounds and life holds no meaning nor joy.
I stand up and began pacing the length of my cell, the now familiar path almost calming my frenzied thoughts. I stride about clockwise; twelve steps, turn right, twelve steps, turn right, nine steps, go around the cot...and so on and so forth. By now I could probably walk it in my sleep. I wouldn't be surprised if I wear a hole along the outer edges of the enclosure before...before what?...before I die, I suppose.
I wonder if anyone would care--if I died that is. Probably not. After all, no one seemed to care that I was thrown into Azkaban in the first place; why should they care if I die? Perhaps they would care; they probably consider death too merciful for the likes of me. But what do they know? They know nothing about what really happened; if they did, I wouldn't be here. I'm surprised they didn't sentence me with the dementer's kiss. Maybe they wanted me to feel remorse, or guilt, for "my sins."
I sit down in the nearest corner--the one farthest from my cell door--as I hear footsteps approach. The silencing charms have been removed again, I wonder why? It's not mealtime, so...hmm...oh well, I suppose I'll find out soon enough. I let my head fall limply against the wall, as a glazed look is forced over my eyes, I wrap my arms around my knees, curled up into an upright fetus position. Best not to let them think I'm too lucid.
The clumping of boots against the stone floor suddenly stops as what I can only assume to be a guard pauses outside my cell. A few muttered spells disables the wards disallowing entry to my cell and with a jingle of keys and the click of a deadlock sliding to an unlocked position, the heavy metal door creaks open on rusty hinges. Hmm...you'd think they'd have spells to keep the doors from rusting, wouldn't you?
I'm broken out of my somewhat inane line of thought as a ministry official steps inside "my room" hastily looking around the small space with disgust before his eyes are invariably drawn to me. I pretend not to notice his presence, opting instead to stare at a crack on the wall oppisite to where I'm sitting. The ministry worker takes his time looking me over, undoubtably trying to assess my mental soundness as accurately as he can in these few moments and taking in my painfully thin, grimy appearance.
He hesitates a moment before speaking, his eyes never leaving my form. "I'm afraid we might be too late." His voice is quiet, though it easily carries throughout the room and into the hallway where more ministry officials are assumably waiting. His words puzzle me...too late...too late for what?
Perhaps they wanted to question me again. Insanity would certainly prohibit them from getting any worthwhile answers in that case, and they surely had come to the conclusion that I was, in fact, insane. Just as well, I don't think I could handle any more of their "questioning." All they ever did was rough me up when I didn't give them the answers they were looking for. They had come to the conclusion that I was immune to veretriserum after administering it and still getting insistence of my innocence. I didn't even know immunity to veretriserum was possible.
My attention was diverted again as a voice drifted in from the hall, a voice oddly reminiscent of Arthur Weasley's, though the chances of him being here were slim to none. "Either way, he's coming with us. We'll take him to Saint Mungoo's if we have to, but you know we can't leave him here." Now this was interesting; they were planning on taking me out? Perhaps I was dreaming...or halucinating, for surely this couldn't be real.
"You two, take him to the showers and clean him up. After you're done take him to Checave's office to have him evaluated. Mr. Weasley and I will start filling out the release forms." Two more men enter the cell and head straight towards me, each grabbing one of my arms and hauling me to my feet roughly. I allow them to do so, stumbling a bit as the drag me out the door and past the ministry official who first entered my cell and a red-headed middle aged man--Mr. Weasley. I can hardly believe he's here, and although perhaps it should, the thought brings me no comfort whatsoever. Stupid betraying bastard.
I'm led to a wing of the facility that I am sure I've never been to before and shoved through a door into what looks to be a communal shower room. Funny that I've never seen it before; you'd think they'd at least let me bathe once in a while. But no...horrible, little murderers like me don't get any form of decency.
A spell is spoken by the guard to my right and my clothes are magicked from my body into a sloppy pile on the floor. Cold water assults my abused body hitting my back like pellets and effectively drenching me. I probably look like a drowned rat, but at the moment I truly couldn't care less. I don't know why, but it appears that my stay at Azkaban has been cut short. The thought of leaving brings a whirlwind of emotions cascading through my mind, some good, some bad. Why are they letting me out; is this some sort of trick? Well...if it is, then the trick's on them.
Author's Note: Once again, thanx to everyone who reviewed! I'm glad that everyone seems to be enjoying my fic, dark and angsty as it is. I know in the last chapter I said that "Harry finally gets out...and meets up with a few old accountances," and that "finally, a couple things are going to get explained," and I'm sorry that this chapter doesn't contain much of what was promised. Well...at least Harry is on his way out, though I'm sure everyone was expecting something a lot more exciting and innovative than what ended up happening. I guess Harry didn't so much "escape" as get released, but...well, whatever. Has the wizarding world finally realized the mistake they made concerning Harry, or is something else going on? I guess you'll have to find out next chapter. And trust me, the reason why Harry was placed into Azkaban in the first place will be explained...maybe not next chapter, but soon. I don't just want to throw it out there, I want to fit it into the plotline so that it flows. I'm still working on the details of the whole misconception myself, so it might take a while before everything is finally revealed. In the next chapter I'm planning on having Harry meet up with his former friends, and Harry's thoughts about the whole situation will actually be voiced aloud to those who hurt him most. I've already started writing parts of the chapter...now to make them fit together properly. Oh, and, my plans are, of course, subject to change; I have a vague outline for the story, but until I actually sit down and start typing I really don't know where it's going to go. I didn't really go back through this and reread it, so there might be some spelling mistakes, gramatical errors, etc. that I missed, and I'm sorry for that. Perhaps I should get a beta. Would anybody be interested? Anyways...I guess that's all; I'd better stop before this author's note becomes longer than the actual chapter. Well, I hope you liked it and that it lives up to your expectations, feel free to criticize (as long as it's constructive). Chow!