Fudge and Future Plans

I'm too tired. I haven't slept for I-don't-know-how-long. My eyes are half shut and my body won't behave. I can barely move. Grief and exhaustion are never a good combination.

Cornelius Fudge is visiting. He's the new Minister of Magic. Well, probably not so new any more.

The other prisoners have been spreading the news that he's coming for days now, which is how I know. I've no idea how they knew. No idea at all.

There he is. Not that I care too much… wait! He's got a newspaper! Maybe it's got the date… and the crossword. God, I miss the crossword. Weird, eh?

"You finished with that?" I rasp, rather pathetically.

Fudge stares at me. That's right, I'm alive and well, and I'm actually coherent! Shock, gasp, horror!

"I miss doing the crossword," I offer as explanation.

Slowly, Fudge nods, and hands me the paper – the Daily Prophet, of course – and a cheap quill.

"'S all right." I return the quill and show him my muggle pen. Useful things. "Thanks."

Maybe I should be drooling and gurgling nonsense? Would that make him feel better?

"…You're welcome…" he's still gazing at me. What's wrong? Apart from the fact that I know who married Shakespeare?

He wanders off, still gaping at me over his shoulder. I ignore him, and check the date at the top of the newspaper.

What? 1993? That's impossible. It can't have been twelve whole years! That's just not possible! Unless, of course, I'm already insane.

Twelve years? No, I must be imagining it.

The picture on the front page catches my eye. I growl, deep in the back of my throat. One of the boys in the picture has a rat on his shoulder. A rat that looks suspiciously like-

Wormtail! Damnit, you creep. Damn you!

I read the article, and, considering the shock I get, it's surprising I don't have a heart attack on the spot.

Harry Potter. Harry Potter! James' son! At Hogwarts, unsurprisingly, but –ohmygod – Wormtail's there too. I bet he's just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to take Harry to his wonderful master. Damndamndamndamndamnit!

What am I going to do?

No. I can't. No one's ever done it before… it's impossible…

Well, I suppose 'impossible' hasn't stood in my way before…

But it's dangerous!

So what? I'd be out of Azkaban and I'd be able to commit that one crime I was imprisoned for. I can't wait.

I could die!

I could die in Azkaban, and I'd much rather die out in the real world than in this shadow, this imitation, this torture chamber.

Yes, Peter, I'm coming, whether you're ready or not.

Whether I'm ready or not.

Are you ready to die?

Am I ready to kill?

I think I am.

Twelve years is too long. I'm coming.