Chapter One: The Doors to Hell

One year prior

The night extended infinitely away, leaving a certain Harry Potter alone beneath the brilliant eternity of the stars and moon. His eyes, normally so vibrant with their emerald glory now bore a dull lifeless glaze as they swiveled purposefully over the night sky. It was almost with certain desperation that he sought out a solitary pinnacle of light amongst the blur of uncountable billions ascending the heavens. He had become almost accustomed to the night sky, familiarizing himself with it most nights, but it was never with such fervor that he searched the stars. When his eyes finally met with the one particular star, its light cast over him a calming presence and his eyes closed, leaving only the most minute opening, blurring out all else but that one light. Harry wanted his time alone with him, with the Dog Star; Sirius, and the presence that bore the same name.

His chin fell to his breast, and unbidden tears from beneath his closed eyes trailed gracefully down his cheekbone and along his jaw, finally descending to the ground below.

"I miss you."

-

Albus Dumbledore's eyes closed with exhaustion, his head held up with great effort between his pale, bony fingers. Despite his ever-present aura of power, he appeared to have aged terribly in the two short years since the Second War, as it was unofficially dubbed by the media, had cast its evil over all. This latest plan, it was desperate, no other word could possibly be used to describe it and still give full justice. He shook his head, berating himself for the sheer stupidity it required. But the times had become worse, and he had found himself left with only a depressingly shortening list of options at the end of every day.

"May all possible luck fall upon us tonight." He whispered, his cracked lips barely parting and his wrinkled features sinking within themselves as his face broke down in exhaustion once more. His once twinkling eyes now sunk within his skull, their pale, watery blue irises gazing into empty space. This option, how could he have chosen it? How could he have forced it upon someone he held so dear? There was no-one better for the situation; of course there was no one else. But there were drawbacks. There always were these days, and there was very little to ever hope for. Deception was impossible, Voldemort would sense his presence; there was no question, their connection was far too strong for otherwise. So a covert operation was out, but there still may be a glimmer at the end of the night. Dumbledore just hoped that Voldemort's tendency to seek knowledge before destruction could work to their advantage. It was too dangerous to hope though; with the monumental chances of failure rising against them, it could prove far more fatal for them to hope.

Dumbledore cast his mind into another inner argument. Voldemort could hardly believe such a change in heart so suddenly, Dumbledore understood that. The mere ideal of him believing and accepting Harry was preposterous. But maybe that impossibility would prove to their advantage. Because both Harry and Voldemort knew the other wasn't stupid enough to attempt such a pitiful trick, it would be infinitely more dangerous for Harry to use such a plan against Voldemort. But maybe, Dumbledore thought, it was as equally unexpected, possibly even the safest choice. Well, as safe as you can be in the lap of the Dark Lord. Even failing that, Voldemort may even choose to let the charade continue just to see what happens, or even just to keep his greatest threat as close as possible. Harry's Occlumency lessons would have to finally prove their use here. But there was no other choice. For Harry Potter to get close enough to Voldemort in order to kill him, he would have to join him.

"Merlin smile on Harry Potter."

-

Harry's gaze fell from the sky, turning down to the fortress before him. He sat, curled into a ball, his glasses sliding slowly down his nose due to the slick, nervous perspiration pooling there. The moon was nearly at its zenith. Voldemort must of course already be aware of his presence, but he would undoubtedly wait for Harry to approach him. He could certainly feel the immense chill emanating from the dark fortress of Azkaban, the Dark Lord within now reunited with his captured followers. This desperate move by Dumbledore certainly told Harry just how far the War had preceded, and what lengths must be met to end it. His eyes closed briefly against the biting cold as he huddled closer into himself, shielding himself from the first few flakes of snow that descended from above, he found his mind wandering the night, to a day only a week prior that had found Harry Potter and Dumbledore in the same room, an event that was such a rarity these days. It was Dumbledore that had informed him of his mission, and the utter importance surrounding it. This could very well be the move that ended the war, for good or evil he could not say. But it was the end, that Dumbledore had stressed, that proved the greatest importance.

"Harry, I trust you tonight as I have never before." Dumbledore began. "Tonight, I will ask you to turn against everything you believe and have fought for." His tone implied to Harry that what was to be said between them now, would quite possibly change the entire drift of the War. "Tonight, I will ask of you one final task, and after that, I shall never ask anything of you ever again. Tonight though, I ask of you the greatest choice you can give. Harry, tonight I am asking you to willingly betray me."

"What!" Harry was definitely more confused than angry. He, of course, understood the implications of what Dumbledore asked of him, but it still didn't manage to sink in yet, and he had every rite to demand further information before taking on such a decision. Dumbledore paused for a while, apparently stewing over his thoughts. When he did speak, it was not to elaborate on his previous statement.

"An end, Harry, is what we seek. We are too weary. We are too weak to continue." Dumbledore's voice seemed aged and cracked. His words seemed to strike Harry. Of course, thanks to what remained of the media, it was a well circulated fact that the War was not fairing well, and Voldemort's grasp on Britain ever-tightened. But it was the utter finality of hearing Dumbledore speak it that hurt Harry most.

"With each close of a sunset, we see Lord Voldemort's power heighten. The people, Harry, they want an end. They need an end to this War. Every single day, they are seeing hope die, along with countless people they held dear. We may not be able to give them a victory, Harry," Dumbledore's eyes rose to meet his own, his voice wobbled dangerously. He seemed to stare at Harry for an age, attempting to process a tidal wave of emotion into that one look. "But we can give them an end."

Harry felt his eyes tingle as he heard what had to be the saddest statement he had ever heard. But what made it infinitely worse was that he knew it what was said to be true. It hurt. It ached so bad that he had to desperately fight not to collapse to the ground in sobs as a world of trust, hope and friends died forever to be replaced by a realm of fear. Instead, he raised his chin and set his jaw, facing Dumbledore.

"How must I betray you?" He asked coldly. It seemed like the strangest thing he had ever said, and his voice sounded completely alien to his own ears.

"I must ask you," Dumbledore's voice sounded flat, and lifeless. "To join Lord Voldemort, and do so willingly and whole-heartedly...and with every intention in aiding him in this war. Until the opportune moment, that is."

The appearance of disgust on Harry's face demanded no further need for elaboration.

"You know as well as I that Lord Voldemort would completely see through any attempts at deceit before him. It would be impossible to get anyone close enough to him to cause any harm without his knowing and allowing." Dumbledore's face slackened as he allowed the weight upon him to rest for a while, his wrinkles deepened and he looked so much older than what he had five minutes ago. "And as you well remember from the prophecy concerning yourself and he, it can only be you who kills Lord Voldemort." He turned his eyes up at Harry's, staring imploringly. "Or he you."

"We cannot allow Lord Voldemort to know your planned deeds, he will expect them at first, of course, and so to earn his trust…you must prove him wrong." It finally struck Harry what Dumbledore was hinting at. His eyes widened, and Dumbledore, noting the change in Harry, only nodded his head sadly. "You must become a Death Eater. And if the Dark Lord demands you to hunt and kill one of us, one of the Order, you must do it. The sacrifice of the entire Order would still prove worthy if it would bring the downfall of Voldemort."

Harry seemed so shocked that all emotions within him seemed to have shriveled away, leaving a blackened, wrinkled shadow of what once was; he stood before Dumbledore an empty shell, devoid of all hope and humanity. His dry lips slowly parted for him to speak, but before he could he was interrupted once again by Dumbledore, whose voice seemed to have taken on a note of urgency.

"No one else, Harry, do I trust as much as you. No one else do I believe stands the merest chance of doing this. Yes, it is a shadow off impossible, and very likely to fail in the first five minutes of playing out. But it is all we have left." His shoulders fell, and he collapsed into a chair. He finally looked, to Harry, like the old man that he should have been years prior, but he had always managed to carry that sense of pure and unquestionable power that now only lingered as a dull shadow. "Harry, to defeat the enemy, you must become him."

Then followed a silence; utter quiet as each wizard watched the other.

Harry's dead face seemed to waver, but he hastily amended that; he was determined not to allow any emotion to pass over his features. Now that all other hope left them with this one singular choice, he decided that emotions were now pointless, and only served as obstructions to the greater plan. The silence seemed to serve as a pact between the two, an agreement that they would not see the people suffer for any longer in anticipation of death. Instead, they would either be free of it forever, or face it to a grisly end. The same fate, Harry knew would meet him eventually.

Dumbledore still managed to smile at him grimly.

"There is always that chance though, that that hope that proved greatest when your parents died for you, Harry, will shine again. It was quite possibly the greatest tragedy of an age, and in the same stroke, our greatest victory. A tragedy is guaranteed for us; that is of course unquestionable. This is war, after all. But let us hope that there is a victory in there somewhere, no matter how obscure and impossible." He forced his lips to grin feebly, his wrinkles parting as the edges of his mouth trembled, struggling to hold the smile. Harry hadn't moved at all, not the slightest twitch.

"We can give them an end." Harry agreed sadly with a note of finality, and then left the room, its single occupant and his innocence behind.

-

A piercing howl shattered the night, and Harry's eyes snapped open. His fist was already balled around his wand, his teeth chattering, though from frost or fright he was not sure. His eyes turned to the sky, and he noted that the moon now hung directly above, at its highest point. It now begins.

Abandoning all attempts to remain concealed to whomever may be looking; Harry rose to his feet and began to slowly make his way, stumbling and half-living, towards the Dark Fortress of Azkaban. The screams from behind the walls intensified, and the wavering glow of spell-fire cast itself over the ground from what few windows there were. It was now obvious to Harry that someone within the prison was being tortured at the end of Voldemort and his Death Eaters' wands, for a reason, or merely for their sick enjoyment, or even to draw Harry out, he did not know. With surprise he realized that only a few years earlier he would have thrown himself into the building five minutes from when the screaming had started, surprised and alarmed at how much he and his beliefs had changed in so short a time. For it was doing just that, he noted with disgust, that had gotten Sirius killed. His heroism. His fault. He preferred the new Harry. In fact, the old Harry disgusted the new one; who wouldn't despise that who brought the death of your dearest companion?

With each waning step towards the prison, the night grew colder, its lethal grip tightening on Harry's chest like a vice. His legs grew leaden, and it became an effort just to step only a few paces. Shortly, he found himself having difficulty breathing, as if there was a hand constraining his lungs, restricting the amount of air he could breathe in. Despite the crushing cold, sweat began to trickle down his face, the salt stinging his eyes. His breath came out in wisps of steam, erupting outwards in a powerful jet before lingering, then fading away into the chilling air. Harry's mind wandered frantically. Could the Dark Lord's power have grown so, that his very presence caused a physical effect on those in his vicinity? Terror struck his heart, and his breath came in short, feverish takes as he collapsed to his knees. Could he go through with this? Could he actively betray everyone he cared for? Not only Dumbledore, but Ron and Hermione? Mr. and Mrs. Weasley? Remus, Hagrid, Fred, George, Ginny, and yes; even Percy? And many, many more. A thunderous thought struck him that caused him to shiver un-voluntarily. He was doing this for all of them, everyone he had ever cared for; for all of their good. But what he was doing for them may result in Harry having to hurt those he loved. Or kill them. He yelped audibly as he actually considered for the first time with any thought what Dumbledore had been talking about.

I"You must become a Death Eater. And if the Dark Lord demands you to hunt and kill one of us, one of the Order, you must do it. The sacrifice of the entire Order would still prove worthy if it would bring the downfall of Voldemort."/I

An image broke into his thoughts: Ron, Hermione and Dumbledore, and everyone else, kneeling before Voldemort as he turned his wand upon them, and Harry standing back in the shadows, allowing it all, even aiding Voldemort.

"Oh my god…" He whispered, with the full weight of the choice he had already made coming down upon him.

"I could end up saving them, only to kill them!" He cried incredulously to no one in particular. "How can I continue with this, knowing what I may do?" His eyes turned up to the fortress, which now lay only a few hundred yards away. The screams now rang clearly through the night, and he could now make out the sounds of insane laughter mingling with them. Harry's stomach lurched, and he found himself hating everything about this island and everyone who stood upon it. Everyone.

"It's too late. Far too late now. I've made the choice, now I have to follow through with it, and accept my punishment for what I've done." He shook his head at the ground, "But should everyone else pay for my choice, as well?" His fist came crashing down, burying itself in the snow and loose earth, his teeth clenched in aggravation. Slowly, after allowing his emotions to fade, he picked himself up, brushed the snow from his knees and managed to shake off the feeling of impending dread, and once again, set off for the final stretch towards Azkaban, and whoever lay within.

Harry had never actually seen Azkaban before, even in books and pictures, and it was with a kind of confused fear that he noticed that it almost appeared like a darker, smaller Hogwarts. Rising up into the sky, dwarfing the island itself somehow, taking up the entire island save for the coast. It was crowned by many towers and turrets, extending more up than outwards, but totally devoid of anything that was even near to the cheery, playful atmosphere of Hogwarts. Instead, it positively reeked of foreboding evil. And above it all, placed on the side of a single, massive tower dead in the center of the fortress, and rising above all others, there rested a gigantic clock, with the hour hand alone more than ten times the length of Harry. Harry thought with sick amusement that if there were ever a place that Voldemort could call home: here it was. Harry made his way to the monstrous, oaken door at the front, his eyes casting over the intricately carved behemoth. He saw horrible images, disturbingly detailed images of witches and wizards riddled with ailments, being torn apart by what looked like demons, dark little creatures with large, bulging eyes and bat-like wings and claws and teeth like razors, laughing sadistically as they tore pieces of flesh from the people. The people screamed, their faces thin, gaunt and distorted, eyes sunken, mouths agape and clothes in tatters, staring imploringly at Harry with their hands extended towards him, trying to reach him through the oaken prison that separated them. He realized with sick fear that they weren't reaching for him for aid; to pull their selves out, but in complete opposite and drag him in to join them in their torture. He couldn't imagine how it would feel to be a prisoner being brought to this place, knowing that you would never be leaving, and to meet with these faces before being dragged within to face whatever beyond. The faces on the door would have their way, no one could ever leave.

His eyes fell upon words carved into the wood:

Welcome, stranger, step inside,

To where all evil comes to hide,

Know that this shall be your last sight,

Of grass and sky, and of moon and night,

For once ye enter, there is no home,

Except these walls to be your tomb,

Here within where naught shall dwell,

But evil and your own, dark hell.

He shivered as the dark words struck home, leaving him feeling haunted by those eyes. Imploring, seeking him out with those sightless pupils, reaching for him with long, clammy fingers to snatch him away and pull him towards the demons to share their fate. The screaming of people beyond those doors seemed to Harry as if they were coming from the images themselves. Torturous, horrible, retching roars of pain. Harry so wanted to shut his ears to them, and his eyes from the images, but they seemed to be drawing him to them, almost hypnotic. Their sightless eyes staring and their arms stretching out. Reaching. Always reaching for him.

With enormous effort, he tore his eyes from the door, his feverish symptoms returning; sweat breaking out over his forehead, his damp hair falling in jet black streaks down his pale face. The door seemed to affect him deeply. He took a while to recover, then forcing himself to turn back to the door in search of a handle. He realized with horror that there was none. He was staring at nothing better than another wall in the side of the fortress, albeit that it was shaped, looked, and made like a door. Remembering how many doors at Hogwarts required certain tasks to open some doors, he began searching the lengths of the door for anything that could be manipulated, changed or moved. The door rose to at least five times Harry's height, the devilish images riddling every last inch of the wood, except where the words lay. Harry also noticed that the door bore no signs of hinges or door knocker. His searches gave nothing but fruitlessness; so-much-so that Harry wasn't so sure that even if the door could be opened. IThis is after all, the most secure prison in the world/I he thought with distaste. IOf course it wouldn't just be a simple act that a teenager could easily accomplish./I His eyes fell, once again on those of the tortured humans. And again, he felt that hypnotic pull on him. In the eerie pale-blue light of the moon, their visages seemed infinitely more real and equally as desperate for his company. Slowly, achingly, Harry raised his arm, his fingers stretching to reach those outstretched by the closest witch, a woman who had already had half of her head torn off by a particularly evil looking demon who had pulled back her head to expose her neck, his fangs bared, ready to delve in and taste her sweet jugular, and the life-juice within; her mouth frozen in an eternal scream. His fingertips reached for her, coming within centimeters of the wooden door. He seemed to be in a trance, his face blank, eyes unblinking.

A scream tore itself from Harry's lips, and he instantly snapped out of the trance, becoming aware of himself once again. Aware of himself, and the arm reaching out from the wood, grasped firmly and unmercifully around his wrist. Harry's cries were lost among those emanating from the fortress, even to his own ears they sounded far off, distant. The arm appeared to be not only coming from the door, it seemed to be made of the same material and, to Harry's rising alarm, to actually be a part of the door, emerging where the witch's arm had last been, almost an extension between the world within the door and out. Harry's heart hammered and his panic rising as he felt the arm beginning to pull on him, retreating back into the depths of the door. He struggled against it, pulling back and for a while it appeared to be a stalemate, neither arm budging to or from the door. But then, once again, Harry felt the arm winning, its nails digging into his flesh, puncturing the skin and drawing blood to slide gracefully down his pale skin to pool on the ground below. The arm began pulling him with a greater urgency. He struggled further, but to no purpose, he had already lost. Sensing that however hard he struggled, the arm would always beat him, Harry just gave in, letting his body go slack and allowing no resistance. His fingertips met with the polished wood first, and he was startled at first at how cold it felt, but that quickly slipped his mind when he realized that his fingers was sinking into the wood, as if it were nothing more solid than water.

"Oh!" He yelped, his eyes widening. "Oh, that is not good." The wooden surface seemed to have become some kind of auburn liquid, exactly the same to the wood in colour and texture. In fact, Harry began to even wonder if it had ever been wood, and if he had found it's decidedly…un-door-like attributes had he just touched it earlier. He gulped audibly, his dry throat making a pitiful attempt to lubricate itself, when he had lost all capabilities to produce saliva several minutes ago. His arm was now into the door up to his elbow, and he found himself attempting to move his fingers around inside, seeking out if there was anything on the other side, but feeling nothing; empty space nor substance. The pace of his being sucked into the door quickened, and in a matter of seconds Harry found his shoulder beginning to be lost to the depths.

"Well…" He groaned, seeing no further point in attempting to delay the inevitable. "Knock-knock." He muttered with a quick sigh, and then pushed his head forwards and lost all knowledge of his senses.

Harry emerged from the other side, and with a final, laboured step, he forced his way out of the solid oak door. Solid being the correct word, as Harry discovered when he took a single, sweeping glance around at his surroundings, and spun around instantly, frantically pressing his palms against the door to find his way back out. Solid. He now realized why it was so simple to get into the fortress; the Ministry wasn't worried about people getting into the prison at all, it was to stop them from getting out that they had laid all the real security against. Idiot, Harry! Idiot! thought to himself, but then realized that he had always planned to enter the prison, and his plans had never involved anything about getting out. With no other choice of direction, Harry turned back to face his next path.

It was massive, huge. Larger maybe than three or four Great Halls, all dimly lit by sconces in the wall, emblazoned with green flames. As such, it gave the entire room, if you could call it that and give it justice to its pure enormity, an eerie emerald glow. This was all too fitting indeed for the occupants standing there, deathly silent and standing in an elongated horseshoe formation, allowing him passage to the very end of the room. They were watching him, clearly already expecting and awaiting his arrival. The disturbingly silent forms of whom they had been torturing now lying before them, unmoving. Harry began to take slow, deliberate steps forwards. Sweat broke out anew on his forehead, though now he knew undoubtedly that it was due to fear. His footsteps echoed around the walls, and the sounds of his robes swishing with his legs' movements were sickeningly loud. But what he was sure that no one in the room could possibly miss was the tumultuous roar of his heartbeat, screaming in his ears. There came a reverberating chime, as the monstrous clock far, far above gave its first toll of midnight.

Doom!

Harry's scar began to prickle. And with each step he took towards the heavily robed Death Eaters his scar seemed to heat up. He could now begin to make out the individual eye slits in each Death Eater's mask. His heartbeat rose steadily. Again; the clock chimed.

Doom!

Harry could not make out the form of Voldemort among any of his Death Eaters. But it would have been absolutely, disgustingly foolish to extract any relief from that. Voldemort was there, and Harry would have much preferred to know the whereabouts of his enemy before walking into his lap.

Doom!

Not a sound came from any of the Death Eaters; they just continued to watch him in complete silence, the only sound being that of his footsteps, and the rhythmic chimes of the clock.

Doom!

Harry began to feel immensely uncomfortable under the many, many stares of the Death Eaters. And to avoid eye-contact with as many as he could, he averted his eyes straight ahead, not allowing them the pleasure of knowing his fear. He noted, with quiet terror that their numbers seemed to have swollen manifold since his last encounter with them. That would be thanks to his reign spreading, and people beginning to believe it safer to be at the right hand of the Devil, Harry thought. Than in His path.

Doom!

Some of the Death Eaters stood facing him, obviously intensely uncomfortable with his presence. Others seemed to be rooted to the spot by their fears. Still more seemed completely bored by the experience. Even more seemed to be aching, positively trembling with hatred of Harry, and loathing having to stand still while their arch-nemesis walked past unprotected for once, wanting no less than to pull away from the group and attack the boy with all curses known to Wizard-kind. But it was the last category, the one containing only three or four people, that terrified Harry the most. They stared back at him with glee, utter, absolute jubilation at finally having Harry Potter; The Boy-Who-Lived in their midst, and picturing with great pleasure what they could do him in just a few short moments.

Doom!

Harry came to a stop at the very end of the room, now facing a line of Death Eaters who stood no further than ten or twenty paces ahead of him. He returned their stares, mainly concentrating his attention on one Death Eater who stood directly opposite him. He could see the eyes of a woman behind the eye slits, startlingly youthful, vibrant blue eyes met with his. He knew the person behind that mask couldn't be much older than he. The eyes turned up at the corners, smiling at him with an evil grin he could still make out just by looking at her eyes.

Doom!

The woman Death Eater's eyes reverted from his, rising up and gazing over his shoulder with great interest. Suspecting the worst, He turned around, discovering that the Death Eaters had closed the gap between them and formed a perfect circle, capturing him at one end, and as much as he hated to leave his back vulnerable to the Death Eaters now behind him, due to his position his back would always be facing a Death Eater. He had no choice but to grip his wand even tighter and face each and every Death Eater in turn, slowly turning round in a circle so as not to allow any one Death Eater too long a chance to send a curse his way.

Doom!

For the first time, Harry saw movement among the Death Eaters, and he turned his gaze to its source. He managed to catch one of the Death Eaters remove their mask with a single, fluid movement. And the face revealed burned through him, scorned him with pure and un-definable hatred. Bellatrix Lestrange. Sirius' murderer. Harry felt a wave of rage flow over him, and he barely managed to keep his face straight and stop himself from stumbling at the very sight of her. She, Harry thought. She will be the first to die. Even before Voldemort, she will die.

Doom!

Like a ripple over the line of Death Eaters, each of them in turn took the example from Lestrange and removed their own masks, revealing their faces to Harry as a sign of their confidence; they feared him little and so found no threat in exposing their faces to him. Even those who actually did removed their masks if only out of pure fear of being singled out from the crowd. Harry knew very little of the faces in the crowd of people, their ranks having risen so much, but there were still those he recognized. Lucius Malfoy seemed the most recognizable besides Bellatrix, sneering at him with those cold gray eyes exactly the same as his son's. And Avery, Nott, Crabbe, Goyle, Jugson, Rodolphus Lestrange, Rabastan, Dolohov, Rookwood and Mulciber. All of them aged slightly, but their dislike for Harry no less evident on their faces.

Doom!

Then as one, every single Death Eater's eyes turned to the very center of the circle, quite a number of paces behind Harry, and Harry noted that in each Death Eater's eyes, the barest hint of fear was visible. Harry froze; his nape prickling and the intense sensation of a sheet of cold rushing down his body. He shivered. Very slowly, Harry turned to face the man who had presently appeared in the middle of the circle with a swish of his cloak. The man stood tall, his face flat, his nostrils and eyes mere slits and his skin sickeningly pale. But what burned through Harry most were those snake-like, ruby slit-pupils.

Doom!

"Harry Potter. I cannot possibly express to you how grateful I am of your presence." The man's voice was sickly sweet, high and exceedingly cold, lathered with an oily slickness. The man's arm rose from beneath his robes, his wand now pointed directly at Harry's heart.

"Welcome."

Doom!