Into the Abyss of Fear
As the Living Master of Death stood on the sole dock leading into the Great Prison, he had to appreciate just how God-Awful the weather on the North Sea could be, especially in December. If it wasn't the Ever-Raging Storm of Freezing Rain, it was the Soul-Sucking Fog that forever lingers around the cliff face caused by the Dementors, leftovers from Herpo the Foul's attempts at summoning a Demon General. With a sigh and a pinch at the bridge of his nose, he cracked his neck to the right and the left before steeling himself. Time to Put Down a Riot.
With a subtle flick of the right wrist, one of the small vials of clear potion (he kept several linings on the underside of his wand holster) whispered into his waiting hand, which he promptly downs before readjusting the single ring on each hand, double-checking the one on the left. He briefly rubbed the lightning bolt-shaped scar that ran across the left side of his chest before he brushed his shaggy mane back from his eyes. He'd gotten used to it pulled back now, but it needed to be down for this.
Being married to 'The Burning Angel' the last three and a half years now had taught him to use the theatrics. She loved to alight her waist-length straight copper hair into a rage of flames, to accompany her fury in a domestic squabble, usually over his putting the lid DOWN. She could be rather intimidating like that, even to him. He loved every moment of it.
A slit of his left thumb across his throat and a twinkle in the stone of the hands' ring, his voice became projected loud and clear throughout the Fortress, as he began a slow and deliberate pace up the path, explaining to those alive inside who he is, why he was there, and that when he finished speaking, 30 Seconds would be given to reenter their cells and submit to 'in Carcerem' until the situation was over. Those who have not complied by then will: be shown NO QUARTER, be given no second chance to surrender. All pleas for mercy would go ignored. Death would be their only reward for resistance.
'Death is close'. The Artifact adorning his left ring finger held the ability to be summoned from anywhere to his finger through a Blood-Summoning, the blood only needing to be supplied once at the forging. Once worn, the same could be done for his, or rather THE, Cloak and Wand. All three Hollows brought together into, what Harry claimed was, the now named: 'Mors Proxima'. Its Power Bound to Him alone, allegiance to his blood unbreakable. Wandless had become effortless and incantations were no longer necessary, he could simply WILL his magic into his intention, accompanied by a grasp of a fist or flick of a finger.
Six months without a Horcrux in his head had shown drastic increases to his overall clarity, control, power, and understanding of the magic he'd been taught over his first seven years of education, having been proven by his crafting of the very ring itself. Only a week after having completed the ring, he'd read through the entire Black Library and mastered all it had to offer, a month later he'd discovered his new Family Magic for the Black-Potter Grimoire, a type of green Fiendfyre that took the form of a Viper.
Throughout his sudden advances in his magical capabilities, speculation abounded. Over the Year and a half between his finishing of the ring and his wedding to Ginevra, it had gotten out of control. Let's just say, there were those in the media who had begun to call him the 'Warlock-Above-All' or 'Merlin's Second Coming' opposite those calling him 'The Bane of Britain' and the 'Third Lord of Darkness'.
He had to admit, he liked that one, with good reason. The trailing Black Smoke itself was useful and intimidating but, pair it with Flight Magic and eyes made of fire, he couldn't resist descending on Diagon Alley like that, and hey? It WAS the cause of the first reported laugh from Forge, as he preferred now, since the middle of the 'Last Stand of Hogwarts' moments before Gred fell.
As Lord Black concluded his announcement, he reached the massive front door to the prison. Waiting the full 30 Seconds, his mind becomes clear, not free of thought but, Aware. Stray images of Gin in that, 'little black nightgown' as she called it, caused him to relax his shoulders for a moment. He needed to shake the thought off. With his left hand, he gavels the massive metal doors, the entire fortress reverberating with each of the three impacts. The fourth time his fist hit the left door: Smoke Blacker than an Eclipse fell about his body as the doors imploded into thousands of razor-sharp projectiles.
He came here knowing every member of the DMLE, from third shift coming off to first coming on, had been slaughtered: 8 Hit-Wizards, 24 Auror. Stepping through the opening he'd made, a pack of Dementors, there were only about two dozen left in Azkaban, caught sight of him as he did so from his right. They'd begun to come towards him until he turned his head to look at them. Eyes no longer occupied his sockets, now there raged two orbs of Emeraldfyre that the mere sight off caused the specters of death to… flee wouldn't be the right word to even do the sight justice. Scramble, clawing, and climbing each other to get away faster. *A smirk* No matter, he'd deal with that lot another time.
Not even bothering to dodge or block the minimal spell fire coming at him from stolen wands, he strode forth as nothing short of the Killing Curse could withstand the Black Smoke's Mana Absorption, an ability he gained from The Black Family Grimoire. In short, the one spell that COULD get through does not affect him anymore, more harmless than the Tickle Jinx. Even THAT can be used in torture.
Trusting his hand palm out and clenching it into a fist, a thousand creaks and groans from bodies, stone, wood, and metal are heard before he yanks his fist back towards himself, stopping as if he'd wound up for an upper-cut. Every metal shard created from his entry rushes like a tornado in the Entryway to Azkaban. Forming a torrent of metal around himself, he begins his trek, keeping his word throughout.
Every Prisoner he came across in a cell, offering no resistance, would receive a verbal 'Sopitum' and 'in Carcerem' in turn, knocking them out for eight hours and then binding them in chains that won't wear off. The first, second, even the fifth that he came across, didn't seem to get the point, he started to think they weren't taking him seriously. He was granted a literal License-to-Kill ANY who resisted, with no surrender accepted after that choice. He was going to have to take full advantage of that.
The torrent of metal made from the front door was now condensed to thigh-height in a wide circle around his feet as he walked; Cloaked in his Black Smoke, Eyes still Bright Emeraldfyre, ripping wands from clenched fists. These people, if you can call them that, didn't do subtle, they're more of a shock and awe-type crowd. He had no intention to disappoint them.
The first five to fall, having been disarmed upon his entry, could do nothing more than try to rush the Fabled Hero. Reaching out with a blur of his fist, the five convicts froze mid-step, panic washing over their faces as five shards from the torrent rose to each's eye level. A snap of his right hand later, five heavy thuds and the sound of blood gushing accompanied his shard's return.
Stepping over the remainder, he continued through the corridor containing transfer cells for those coming in or, on the very slim chance, going out. Azkaban has no windows of any kind, only the open-aired ceiling at the center of the Prison, above the Abyss. Not having the time to waste on traversing the maze of halls and stairs to reach the center, reaching the end of the main hallway saw him reach a T-junction.
Placing his left hand on the stone wall, a glint shone from the ring, satisfied a prisoner was not inhabiting the cell on the other side, he stepped back. Testing himself with the use of his right, he raised his dominant hand, fingers extended as if a claw, raking across the stonework, falling into sand trailing behind. Stepping through the new opening and a flick of the index sees him emerge into the walkways.
The Prison extends four levels below the rock and eight above. Four 8-story walls, each joined by a 12-story tower, all of the cells in the prison lining the interior of the walls facing towards the center, with walkways built around the open-air plunge of death. The Prison may only go down 4 levels but, The Abyss drops at least another 6, straight into a violent Whirlpool, edges lined with jagged teeth.
If the fall doesn't kill you, the Pool will. This place is, after all, meant to be the last place the worst of the worst ever come to see, Maximum Security. No sentence less than 3 years, bottom 4 levels house Lifers only, top 8 house the rest. Petty Crimes are kept in-house at The Ministry on Level 2, 'The Catacombs'.
There were at least 32 stolen wands about the Fortress, add in the 7 Marked still alive and imprisoned here, this wasn't going to be a fair fight. They just didn't have enough power, even all together. Having mapped the Prison using his "knocking", he already knew all 7 Marked were spread out on Sublevel 4 attempting an ambush. Too bad for them. Having made his way to the open-aired center of the ancient structure, it was time to show the Marked what potential Tom saw, and had feared to see, growing in Harry.
Looking over the edge toward Sub-4, he nods to himself before backing up a step. With a subtle swish of his left hand this time, the stone banister folds away, opening a door that he, simply, steps through. As if the floor was still beneath him, he strode to the center of the open drop, Black Smoke still billowing, metal torrent still raging.
For just a moment, his display of magic had a few cheers pop up from below, quite quickly silenced by understanding. This was not, in fact, The Dark Lord's Second return but, the arrival of his Bane. Without missing a beat, the instant he stopped, both arms came up, palms out, fingers extended, flexing his magic into thin wires. In the span of a single breath, those wires sought out and coiled around every other Wand Core, before yanking back his hands to himself, bringing 30 Wands to him above the Pool, disarming the entire prison.
Storing the Wands with the others, he used those same tendrils of magic to bind every prisoner where they were, on all 12 walkway levels above and below him, before he made his aerial descent. Extending his Left Arm out, the same Dark Green Fire that consumed his eyes began to form; First at the tips of his fingers, where fangs appeared; engulfing the entire hand, the head of a serpent forms; wrapping up around his wrist, up to his forearm and beginning to trail behind, comes the body of a Fiendfyre Serpent.
Fiendfyre like never before; Completely under control, cool to the touch, and burning nothing, unless otherwise intended. Today, however, his Emerald Viper would burn. Collecting the torrent of metal into a sphere with his right hand, he formed a sword from part of it, his left pulled him to the lowest level, guided by the Emerald Viper, eager for the feast.
There is no escape, nowhere to run, each Rioter had three choices, all resulting in death, and they were each given that choice: Jump to the Abyss and let fate decide how quickly you go; Burn slowly from the inside-out, from Fiend Venom; or Beheading by a sword, made from the metal of the doors to Azkaban. Not the Seven Marked though, no, this riot started with them, they were to the Viper.
'I Must Not Tell Lies,
for The Lesson,
Not Learned in Blood,
is Soon Forgotten'.
-The Words of Houses Black-Potter
There was no taunting of the ends to come, no great proclamation in defense of the Light, or condemnation of the Dark, not a word passed from the young Lord as he landed in the depths. Stalking the lowest walkway, he gathered the Seven from along the cell walls, levitating them into a train that followed behind, screaming and hollering insults their only form of resistance.
The Prison was silent save the screams coming from the Marked above the Abyss. While Lord Black held them over the Viper, Green Flames slowly crept up to their legs, wanting every scream to reverberate throughout. Every inch of flesh was eventually consumed by the flame beast in delight, it had never had a feast like this, until now. Bones began to fall into the pool below, like any snake, leaving behind toes to drop to the depths below, before feet and leg bones made the plunge.
All the while, the seven Death Eaters were somehow still alive, wailing pleas to end it, all except Rookwood, who'd tried biting his tongue to end it early himself. A flex of his magic for more wires solved that exit plan. Forcing his mouth open, Lord Black guided his wires to wrap around each tooth deep at the gum line. With a tense of the wires, every single tooth was severed from its roots. He could choke on them while he burned or spit them out, neither mattered as the end approached.
15 minutes, FIFTEEN. That's how long it took for the Silence to become total with the dropping of seven skulls. With the choice given, Harry began his ascent. Approaching Sublevel 3 saw the first to make his choice known. Having choked out 'Fuck this'; Still bound like the rest, he leaped straight into the Jaws of The Abyss upon seeing Harry approach the level, Emerald Viper returned to his Right Arm, sated from the flesh-turned-ash feast.
A single bite from the Viper was all that was needed to finish the job quite quickly. A single drop of the liquid-green fire and death would follow within 10 breaths. The first to be given the choice, of snake or blade, as the plunge option ended when he reached a prisoner, chose snake. One bite from the Viper and he moved to the next.
Harry had reached the second man before the first had finished dying, still writhing in the invisible threads he had been bound with. The second refused to answer so, the snake tasted flesh once more. Continuing his stalk along the walkways, every prisoner who hadn't jumped chose the Blade, as it was instant. No ceremony or last words, they chose Blade and he slashed one time, cleanly cut.
By his return to the First Floor, many had chosen the Abyss already, however, many had not and he still had to go all the way up. By Level 7, his Fyre was beginning to pout. Imagine, an emerald snake made of fire, pouting because it wants to burn more. It wouldn't do to have it become frustrated with him; it was more like a Familiar than just conjured fire-made form, after all.
So to appease the Fiend's jealousy upon reaching Level 8, he rescinded the choice of the blade to those few left, it was now: Jump or burn. None of the remaining eight had jumped, so they ended this life burning, each able to scream one lung full before scattered bones were all that was left.
Three-Quarters of Azkaban had been emptied this morning, the prison littered with bone-piles and mangled gore. Every Prisoner who had survived the Riot were those close to parole, had just arrived or had been in since before Tom's first rise. Every Death Eater, Snatcher, and Muggle-Hunter had been permanently taken care of. The three extra Wands were a mystery for later but, 32 Wands would be returned to kin today… yet the victims of more than three times that number would sleep just a little easier that night.
Making his way back down to Level One and out the main entry, Harry stopped where he'd stood to gavel the heavy metal openings to make his entry. For the first time since landing on the island's shore, a snap of his right wrist brought his wand to hand. Finally receding his Fiendfyre and Black Smoke into himself, the Emeraldfyre engulfing his eyes dies down. Pivoting back on the ball of his left foot and raising his wand hand to face the opening, he began reforming the ball of metal, the temporary sword having already rejoined, back into the very doors shattered upon his entry.
Pivoting so his right swung back again, he sets pace down the path, raising his wand above his head. Three red flares shoot high above the fortress towers, each timed precisely, signaling the all-clear, followed by a herd of Patronus erupting from the leveled wand. Every Hit-Wizard and Auror in the Empire, including those in training, were waiting in several ships anchored around the perimeter of the island. Reaching the edge of the dock where stone meets, he could see 13, filled-to-the-brim, boats coasting towards him over the rough and stormy waters.
Moments later he stored his wand before handing over the collected wands to Madam Bones' niece/assistant, Susan, before briefing the Chief on the current situation. Extracting his memories of the morning's events, placing them in a vial, and labeling them before handing it over was the limit of his paper-pushing. Confirming his payment, he was assured his bonus to secure the prison had been deposited, with the remainder waiting to be determined by the number of Life Sentences he completed.
With an 'Excellent work' from the Head of the DMLE, a tight-lipped blush from Ms. Bones, and his nod in return, he pivoted back on his left foot then preceded to the edge of the dock, where he turned on the spot without a pop, returning to his cottage in Hogsmeade Center, the 'Historic Section' of Hogstowne. At a population of 74,266, it had become the world's largest magical settlement after the war, simply due to his living there permanently.
An Auror had the job of investigating and capturing evidence, along with guarding the island, hence the phrase Dark Wizard Catcher, with all the bureaucracy that came included. Meaning, the job of figuring out how Azkaban had ended up as it had, was left to them. The Hit-Wizards are nearly all 'Dead or Alive' Contract Bounties, paid a salary, and bonused when completed, The Dark Wizard Hunters. The job he THOUGHT The Auror Corps would be. If he didn't want a contract, he didn't have to take it, he could fail to complete even a single annual contract, and still be employed, just for the fear gained by the Hit-Wizards when the populace learned 'Harry Fucking Potter' was one.