Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.
Written for QL, Round eleven: Harpies Captain: Who's Afraid of the Dark? (S7)
Word Count - 1025
Thank you to Ash, for the idea behind this fic, and everyone who beta'd.
An Exchange
My walls are filled with darkness. Everyone who passes through feels it on an instinctual level, but the inmates feel it the most. They feel the chill from the stones that keep me together, and they feel the darkness swirling up from the floor.
The Dementors feed from me, as I feed from them. An exchange, if you will: souls for darkness, darkness for souls.
I hold the souls of all of those who have lived within my walls. They try and escape sometimes, but it never works.
I've never lost.
…
She stroked his hair back from his face. Barty looked up at her with hollow eyes, barely recognising the woman who'd birthed him.
"Drink this sweetheart," she murmured, pressing a flask against his lips.
He drank, not even flinching away from the deplorable taste of the liquid within. He could feel his skin shifting, feel his hair growing rapidly from his scalp, but he was oddly detached.
Before his eyes, his mother turned into a mirror of himself.
"Mum?"
His voice was cracked and rough, from misuse or screaming or both.
"You're going to be okay, darling," she whispered. "Your father's going to take you out of here, and you'll be fine. Winky… Winky will look after you."
Barty didn't understand, but then there was a hand under his armpit and he was being wrenched to his feet, unstable as he tried to stand under his own power.
"Thank you, Barty," his mother whispered, and it took him a moment to realise she wasn't talking to him but to his father.
Barty tried to look at his dad, but before their eyes could meet, he heard, "Imperio."
And suddenly nothing seemed to matter.
…
When they arrive, they are filled with hope of escaping me. They do not realise until it's too late that even if their bodies escape me, they leave a part of themselves behind.
I take without their consent, without care for them, because they have never cared for me. Nobody cares for the jailor, do they?
…
Hagrid sobbed into his large hands as the cell door shut with a clang. The human guards paid him little mind as they walked away from him, but the other inmates seemed to smell fresh blood.
He could hear the jeers and shouts from his neighbours and they made him cringe.
He didn't belong here.
Didn't belong against the murderers in these cells, those that had done the bidding of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or hurt people with their own free will.
He hadn't killed anyone.
He just wanted to help the creatures he found; but Aragog hadn't done this.
Hagrid hadn't done this.
He curled up as best he could on the so called bed, which was little more than a stone slab, though he was far too large for it.
The walls were chilled to the touch, and he shivered, pulling his coat tighter around him. They'd made him empty his pockets before they'd showed him to his cell, but they'd told him to keep the coat; that he'd need it.
They weren't wrong.
And the Dementors weren't even here yet. Hagrid could feel them in the air, but he knew worse was to come.
Feeding time was sure to be approaching.
…
Occasionally, I grow fond of my cells' inhabitants. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it changes things.
I make allowances, I shield them from the worst the Dementors can do. I allow them their sanity, their soul, their comfort; at least as much as I am able.
…
Being a dog helped.
Sirius was surprised he could still use his animagus form, but he was more grateful for it than he'd ever been for anything in his life.
After months of being forced to relive his worst memories—of which the choices were many and varied, though had the common theme of his childhood home—Sirius had wished so hard to just be Padfoot, and something had answered his wishes.
It had made things a little easier.
Just a little.
It helped him retain his innocence in his mind, his belief that he wasn't meant to be there, that he didn't deserve the horrors being forced upon him.
Padfoot gave him hope in a hopeless place, and Sirius could only be thankful for that.
…
And then there are those that seem to thrive from my darkness. They are perhaps my favourite inhabitants, because as with the Dementors, it becomes a mutual give and take.
Their soul for my darkness, my darkness for their soul.
…
She sat by the bars, looking out at the crashing waves of the ocean. Bellatrix liked the water; especially here.
In her youth, she'd spent time at the lake house with her family, and the water had almost always been calm. Serene.
She preferred the sea that slapped against the stones surrounding the island, the white water it threw up to the top as it crashed violently.
There was a chaos to the water that matched her mind, her heart, her soul.
Bellatrix liked chaos.
She shivered against the chill of the walls and smiled to herself. It was always cold. Cold and dark.
It suited her, though she wished she could be free too. Not for herself, but for her Master.
She knew he was out there somewhere, alone and powerless, and there was nobody left to find him.
To help him back to the incredible being he was.
It would happen. She still believed that one day, he'd be back and he'd come for her. He'd reward her for staying loyal to him, and he'd help her get revenge on those that had thrown her here.
Until then, she'd watch the waves and wait.
…
I'm not where someone with their sanity intact would like to call home. I am here to hold the worst of the worst, the dregs of society.
Not many make it out alive, and those that do… they'll never be the same again.
Much of the time, it comes down to who is afraid of me; to who is afraid of the dark.
For I am Azkaban.