The Quetzal's Fire

Harry Potter

I'm trying to start a Harry Potter fanfiction message board. Email me or go to my homepage link and sign up for my totally subjective admittance process. As always: idiots need not apply. Fools, of course, are more than welcome.

A/N: Well, here's the third. I'm sorry about not writing posting this earlier; unfortunately I just got back from a trip and I've been bogged down with schoolwork. I've also started a new book, The Private Life of Chairman Mao, by Zhisui Li, Mao's personal physician. It is a fascinating character study- I haven't read any biography like it. Recommended, for sure. Also: I apologize for my totally rudimentary knowledge of British geography. I doubt Manchester is anywhere near Little Whinging, where I recall Privet Drive is located. Again, apologies to any British readers. Anyway:

Part Three: Out of Left Field

As Harry stepped outside, Lucius Malfoy did the same. The most obvious difference between their strolls was the locale: Lucius's jaunt occurred on an island between Ireland and Britain. This island was spelled to be swept constantly by storms. Twenty inches of rain fell upon it daily, while the wind was usually around eighty knots- this, far more than the fortress's typical defenses, or even its guards, was the main reason round trips off the island were as rare as a sunny day on there. The downside of the constant, brutal weather was he incredible wear that should have destroyed any structures on the island. There was only one, and it had stood for one thousand years: Azkaban Prison. It was spelled to resist just about everything, from cursesto lava to hurricanes.

Now, the inmates were running the asylum.

Literally.

The prison, populated mostly by the followers of Lord Voldemort, was a place used to cultivate insanity. Most of the prisoners had some sort of mental illness going in, being murderers, sadists, and just generally paranoid. That was further accentuated by the dementors, the only things that could actually survive the brutal conditions of the island's climate. Of course, now the dementors had assisted in breaking out the Death Eaters. The elder Malfoy was in charge of the little revolt, and he was quite satisfied with its execution. At the moment, he was standing on the rampart, a shield charm protecting him from the elements.

"Captain," shouted Malfoy over the wind. The head of the dementors glided over. "Have your… subordinates performed the kiss upon the spares?"

The top of the disembodied cloak nodded.

"Very good. No doubt your constitution is far better now." The dementor's only reply was to suck some of that pleasant thought away. Malfoy shuddered, taking the hint. "Duly noted. Gather the troops, captain. We shall meet you in the exercise yard in ten minutes. That should be the amount of time it takes for the aurors to arrive…"

Ministry of Magic personnel manned a small cottage on the coast at all times. Because of the various enchantments placed upon Azkaban, the only way to reach it was by boat. There was only one boat capable of doing the job, H.M.S. Correction. The brilliance of the vessel's name was, incredibly enough, surpassed by its superlative utility, durability, and comfort. While "going over" was hardly the most enjoyable task funded by the Ministry, it was not painful until you actually got there.

Correction was an old Royal Navy destroyer, about 100', from about 1955. It had been modified somewhat after leaving muggle service, of course, and was often used by the government's dignitaries for embassies to other magical states. Most of the time, however, it was stocked with weapons medieval and wizards dour. There were even a few assault rifles, but they hardly ever worked.

In the cottage was a light board that displayed the status of the island. It was operated by magic (completely independently of the dementors) and was installed by the wise, cautionary souls who foresaw a dementor revolt not unlike the one in question. There were three categories: "Normal," "Tense," and "Bloody Hell." The third category, a red light, was illuminated. Klaxons sounded and awoke the task force of ten aurors, who scrambled to dress, strap on their enchanted armor, and grab their wands and armaments. They did not know how bloody the hell was that they were walking into.

Even as the Aurors boarded Correction, Harry sat on a park bench in Little Whinging. Voldemort had a plan that night that was elaborate and nefarious. Neither were unusual for his plans, but the former usually wound up being their undoing. Harry knew he was being watched by some member of the Order, but he also knew they could not show themselves for fear a Dark spy would compromise Harry's security. He wanted the company, especially after that pleasant evening with Aunt Marge, but he was as alone as he was the previous summer.

Harry moved to a swing and pushed off. It didn't compare to a broom, but it was as close to the real thing he could get. The activity was complex enough to let Harry concentrate on something besides his dark thoughts, as well.

Up, down, up, down… Harry had always been the best swinger at muggle school, but if he was on a swing Dudley and company would always toss their underfed punching bag off and take it for themselves. There had been one incident in particular in which…

There was a crack, snapping Harry out of his reverie.

That sounded like apparition, he thought, his tired mind snapping into action. It can't be...

Suddenly, Harry felt a blunt impact on the whole of his frame. Everything but his rightt leg had fallen off the swing- that limb was entangled in the chains. Harry felt his head concuss and scrape against the concrete- the woodchips had been scraped away by the many children who used the swing. Harry tried to draw out his wand, but the pocket of his jeans was out of reach. Whenever he tried to get up, he felt dizzy, and there was also the matter of that muscle that felt like it would tear. Harry was struggling so madly that he didn't see the woman behind him, dressed in a dark cloak.

Bellatrix Lestrange knew that her Lord would want the boy alive, so she began to get a stunner ready. She hesitated for a moment. He was more or less the one who had put her through a dementor-enduced hell for roughly ten years. It would be so nice to kill him, or at least give him a little pain. She shook her head, thinking of what kind of pain her master would serve up if she did execute the Boy Who Lived summarily.

"Hello, Potter!" Lestrange exclaimed vindictively. "Enjoying your muggle toy? You certainly look like a child to me!"

"Oh, really witty. Do you realize that every time I've encountered you you've said the same thing?" replied Harry, feigning nonchalance. He was quivering, and it wasn't helping with the feeling that he was going to black out, especially after he scraped his head around to glance at the Death Eater. Of course, it was more accurate to describe the motion as a squelch- Harry's head was resting in a pool of blood that was too deep to be from just a minor scrape.

"I don't have time for your feeble taunts and witticisms, Potter, because you have an appointment with my master. If you were so smart, you wouldn't have left that pathetic muggle's property!" spat Lestrange, wand sparking as she spoke. "Clearly Dumbledore has abandoned you!"

"That would appear to be an inaccurate statement," replied a cultured, accented voice. Harry couldn't place it, nor could he see its owner aside from their brilliantly white robe. "Stupefy!" Lestrange collapsed and Harry turned his head back to its normal position. He didn't bother struggling with the swing anymore; he was tired as it was and he'd lost about a pint of blood. Sleep would be nice…

Before Harry went under, he realized it could be a clever ruse by a Voldemort taking no risks. Harry didn't care, and it wasn't the Dark Lord's style, anyway. Why not send five, ten Death Eaters? Maybe Voldemort felt some sort of inferiority…

Harry awoke in an regrettably familiar setting, the Hogwarts hospital wing. It was dark. How long was I out? he wondered, turning his head to try and look at the clock at the entrance to the ward. He winced as the scabs all over the side of his head cracked and started bleeding again. It seemed as if Madame Pomfrey had repaired his cranium to its full integrity, however. As he turned his head towards the ceiling, one of the doors at the entrance opened quietly. Harry tried to sit up in his bed, but his leg felt sore. He pushed himself up with his arm, grunting with effort. After rearranging his pillows, Harry collapsed into his pillows and looked at the benevolent visage of Albus Dumbledore.

"Good evening, Harry. It's about three in the morning. You were knocked out about seven hours ago." Dumbledore paused, searching for words. When he spoke, his eyes narrowed slightly. "Bellatrix Lestrange has been apprehended and is in the custody of the Ministry of Magic. Madame Pomfrey insists that I tell you that your skull isn't nearly as impregnable as you seem to think it is, and some of the muscles in your leg have ruptur—"

"But, Professor, I didn't go asking to get attacked!" Harry exclaimed, starting in. He could feel his temper rise. It was unfair for Dumbledore to blame him for that… and only months after Sirius died.

"Harry, Harry, my dear boy, certainly you don't think I believe that? You're quite obstinate." The old wizard's mouth crinkled in a smile. Harry shut his mouth, chagrin rising to his face. "It probably was not the best idea to be so far from Number Four at sunset, however," continued Dumbledore. "Nobody can guarantee your safety at any time, of course, but it is certainly far easier to protect you when you are under your blood's protection.

"Now, I have pondered the matter and I think that the safest place for you to spend the remainder of the summer is Hogwarts. I will not keep you here, though, if you do not want to stay."

"Stay? Why are you even asking?" Dumbledore smiled again.

"Excellent. Abd al Rahman has recovered your belongings, and they have been put in Gryffindor tower."

"Whozzat?" Harry asked automatically. Dumbledore's expression turned slightly more serious.

"Oh… he is a new member of the Order, Harry. He is the man who saved you. Not only that, but he will also be your defense against the dark arts teacher. And he is from Syria." Harry started from the sudden influx of information. His head still hurt too much to process anything properly.

"And, er… how do you say his name?"

"Abd al Rahman. You will be able to meet him later. I have one last bit of news for you, and it is not nearly as good as what I have just told you." Harry looked straight into Dumbledore's eyes, which narrowed. "All the Death Eaters in Azkaban have broken out. The dementors are now working for Voldemort. The human guards and those prisoners who were not Death Eaters were all given the kiss. The war has started, Harry, and we lost the first battle."