It was night time, but it was always night in hell. The sky cracked with lightning, the wind raged the sea, and the night, it was dark.
Harry Potter, man-who-conquered, boy-who-lived, war weary veteran, shivered against the cold iron bars of his cage. Any other person would've huddled in the rags that passed for blankets there long ago, desperate to escape the bone numbing cold, but here we're dealing with someone who does not bow, who stands tall and unflinching, against Dark lords, the weather, or to his own slipping mind.
"Talk to me, Harry. You're not alone. Please, open your eyes," and so and so whispered a trembling voice in the dark, although it sounded far away.
Azkaban. The only word that terrified people more than the Dark Lord's name. It was a fortress, a bastion of the deep, crawling dark. It was a nightmare place, where evil and corruption thrived like fungus on unwashed crotch. It was also the cradle of the dementors.
Harry Potter was more affected than most people brought here. His cell-mate blamed his wildly traumatic past – which included the abuse he suffered at the Dursleys, the fickle loyalties of his school-mates, the slaughter of his friends and family, and the war he'd fought and failed – and he'd have agreed if he could, except he was affected to such a degree that he'd been comatose since his first night there. And even if he could and had, he'd have had been wrong.
It was the darkness calling back one of its own. And on this night, his soul was singing the same tune.
"Harry, wake up, someone's coming."
A hundred brides walking down an aisle hand in hand, a deep hungry rumbling from underground, a swarm of angry buzzing wasps, an orchestra of crumbling bone.
The dementors were coming.
Death was coming too. Literally.
Her darkly fluorescent black robes rubbed against stone as she ambled across the corridor, her deathly entourage in tow. With each fall of her steps, the ground shuddered and moaned soundlessly in orgasmic throes. Her eyes glittered like a sea of stars in the night sky, her full crimson lips curved like an archer's tight lethal bow and the rich hallowed scent emanating from her smooth, shaved skin lulled each and every soul she passed into a sleep from which there was no awakening.
Shadows worshipped at her feet, the air tickled her hair, and light curved around her, always quick to maintain a safe FDA approved distance from her soft, velvety skin.
Her robes parted around her lush, voluptuous breasts, the skin peppered with sweat, and her nipples were hard and pointy.
If million-dollar portraits could move (and in the world we find ourselves in, they do), she'd be worth billions. Such was her beauty, her brilliance, her elegance, that she'd outshine trucks full of gold, or diamonds, or anything sparkly.
And she was headed right toward Harry Potter's cell.
"Harry, wake up!" the voice screeched. An arm wrapped itself around his weary gaunt shoulders and shook him back and forth. "RESPOND, NOW!"
His cell-mate looked upon his bland unresponsive face with desperation and worry. She pulled her hand back, "I'm sorry, Harry," and smacked him on the face hard. Twice. Still, the man showed no reaction except for a reddening of his face where her hand had connected.
"Argghh…" she dropped to her knees in front of him, head in her palms, her body shaking with helpless sobs.
The war had ended. All thanks to Dumbledore's convoluted schemes, and the steadfast courage of one self-sacrificing teenager. Or so it had seemed, the morning after the battle, and a handful of mornings to come. But as the hand that holds the pen had decreed, it was not to be so.
Voldemort had risen again, but this time, a horde of demons had risen alongside him. He was stronger too, and uglier. Though nobody could attest to that fact outside of his close-knit group of followers, as anybody unlucky enough to chance upon his face was cut down and quartered, sprinkled with gasoline and pepper, and fed to his demons. Insert image of ugly fire-breathing multi-headed monsters.
Voldemort and Dorthakurk, the king of the demons.
The war that had followed was less a war and more a slaughter, at least at the beginning, when families celebrating freedom were caught unawares and grinded into demon-chow.
"Nimmy?" A dreamy, droopy voice said, cracking with disuse. Their cell, which was no bigger than an average sized stable, atop the highest tower, was host to little light, for the sun never shined on Azkaban, but mostly because the only window there was the size of a dinner plate. A very small house-elf sized dinner plate.
"Harry?" Nymphadora Tonks, demon-slayer extraordinaire, and Harry's compadre in everything including but not limited to sex, rushed toward him with face expressing disbelief and no small amount of joy and relief.
"Miss me?" Harry cracked a tooth-less grin and allowed himself to be scooped up in her arms.
"Not immensely." She smiled, hugging him to her happily plus sized bosom.
"How long 'ave I bee out?" he carefully enunciated, tasting each syllable.
"Long enough to give me a fright!" she wailed, finger-poking him in the stomach as her hair cycled through every combination and permutation of red, green and blue. "Do you even know where we are?"
"I'd rather know where the exit is." He climbed to his feet, pushing against the cold iron bars.
"Knock, Knock. Am I disturbing something?" Another voice joined the choir, and everything fell off-key.
Evening, minions.
This is the first chapter of a story I've been meaning to write for a long time. I'm not aiming for a large following of any kind, but if you want to show appreciation, do leave a review or hit the follow/favorite button.
I'm pants at writing a q&a or A/n or whatever this is, so I hope you'll forgive this temporary lapse and wait for the next chapter with a smile on your ugly mugs.