Disclaimer: The rights to the Harry Potter series go to J.K. Rowling. All original ideas present in this belong to me.

AN: Sorry this chapter is a bit late! I've had a very busy week and I wanted to make sure that I captured how fucking spooky Azkaban really should be in this. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Eight | Dead Men Wait Dreaming

I've pored over the documents that I stole from the DMLE for the last week, taking in every last scrap of information that I can. Every single detail of Azkaban I've committed to memory.

The prison is set up in five levels, at least, there's five usable levels, and those are all above ground. The higher up you go, the more intensive the security is and there are quite a bit more dementors posted along those floors, evidently to bring every bit of misery they can to the sad sons of bitches locked up there.

I don't feel bad for the Death Eaters and other scum that are imprisoned in Azkaban, but I think that having actual demons float around them 24/7 is the pinnacle of cruel and unusual punishment.

The levels below ground are part of the dementors nests. There are caverns and burrows that twist and turn like dwarven mines deep below the frigid and tumultuous North Sea. They've been lightly explored, but no one has committed to mapping the ant hill of passages due to the stifling presence of dementors. If things go south, I can always retreat there and shelter amongst the cloaked demons.

Going to be honest, that's not a sentence I ever thought I, or anyone for that matter would ever say.

The prison is set up like an old star fort, probably because it once was. There's battlements on the highest level with embrasures spread out along the walls, giving the guards inside an advantageous view of the rocky outcropping that the prison is situated on.

To get in, I'm going to have to take an enchanted boat, since the island is surrounded by anti-flying wards. I'm not too keen on attempting to fly in and then finding myself drenched and stranded in open ocean.

Thinking back on my little Ministry invasion, some good came out of that. Scrimgeour has been publicly hung to dry, Amelia decrying his corruption as, 'disgusting, and not representative of what the Department of Magical Law Enforcement stands for.' He's now off to the magical equivalent of white collar prison, something that doesn't even exist in Britain.

No, he's been pawned off to the French, who actually have a humane correctional system, and has been locked up in some sort of prison situated somewhere in the French Alps. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

Alright, so, looking at these papers, my night is going to be a hell of a lot of fun, and by fun, I mean a night that involves premeditated murder and a whole lot of stress. So… something that's becoming awfully regular for me.

I do another onceover of the ancient mappings of the prison, even the copied parchment hanging limp, its edges slightly tattered from centuries of being shuffled from Department Head to Department Head, resorted and categorized in whichever way they saw fit.

Taking a deep breath, I still myself. I blink to Sumburgh, having taken a trip to the Shetlands earlier this week. The boat that takes someone to Azkaban is situated off of the precarious cliff face that runs the eastern length of the islands.

As soon as my feet touch the ground I can feel the wind whipping at my hair, lifting Death's cloak up and over my head to stave off the frigid sea air. Christ, it must be only three degrees out here with the wind chill cutting through me, and it's the middle of summer.

I look down the edge of the cliff, eyes skirting about for the heavily warded pier that shelters the Azkaban dinghy.

Yes, a goddamn dinghy to take me across the raging North Sea.

Finally noticing a glint of torchlight, I blink down and quickly incapacitate the auror on guard, who lets out a startled squawk as my stunner strikes his chest. I catch him before he tumbles into the drink, quickly binding him and taking his wand, tucking it into my robe pocket as I resuscitate him.

The slight man shakes his head as he comes to, blinking owlishly. "S- s- stay back!" He shouts, suddenly remembering what happened. He attempts to lift his arms, looking down at his constraints as a hopeless expression quickly settles over his features. "What… what do you want with me?" He asks, stuttering pitifully.

I thank Death silently for the incredible disguising abilities of his cloak, my face nestled in shadow as I press my wand to my throat, distorting my voice.

"I want you to take me to Azkaban," I say, the auror frowning, dim gray eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Take you to Azkaban? What in the hells would you want to do that for?"

I shake my head, as if I was going to tell him why. "That doesn't matter. What does, is that you're going to do exactly as I tell you." I twirl my wand, the end sparking dangerously as it passes over his face, his eyes widening in fear. "Otherwise things may not go too well for you."

He nods furiously, gesturing with his head towards the boat. "Well, you uh- you need me in there if we're going to go to Azkaban."

I lift him easily, placing him gently into the boat, the man looking at me in confusion for treating him so delicately. "I'm not an evil person," I explain, turning my shadowed face towards him. "I just have… things I must accomplish tonight. I do not wish to hurt you, nor the guards in the prison, but if I have to fight, I will."

Nodding once more, this time a touch more hesitantly, he wiggles his bound fingers at me. "Can't move the boat without my hands."

I jab my wand in his face, the end glowing briefly. "Don't try anything funny, got that?" I say as I wave it over him, his bonds falling apart.

It's not as if the man can beat me in a contest of raw strength, as I've augmented my body quite a bit over the last few years, nor can he use wandless magic. The only person that I know of that can accomplish such a thing is Dumbledore, and his abilities in the art are simply cantrips, summoning charms and the like. To the best of my knowledge nobody in the world apart from me can cast wandlessly in the way that I do. Not that it's casting, but my control over air and earth is wholly unique.

The auror grabs the rudder with shaky hands, the boat beginning to move swiftly over the churning black water. The smell of salt stings my nostrils, causing them to flare as I inhale deeply, keeping my eyes locked on the wary auror as he glances around nervously, directing the dinghy towards the nightmarish fortress.

The sea begins to roil as we get further out, the tiny craft breaching over great waves, sea water spraying precariously over the bow as they rise and fall. My eyes have been glued to the nervous auror the whole time, but they flick away momentarily as Azkaban begins to come into view.

A massive stone fortress that seems to be hewn out of the rock it stands upon, smooth black walls forming a sheer and indomitable face that almost looks over the heaving ocean that surrounds it, judging us with its presence alone as we approach.

I can feel the Black Magic that fuels its wards as we get closer and closer, the feeling of Death and the decay that comes along with him bearing down on me. It's almost comforting, the familiar sensation of Black Magic as it swims about, tendrils of black only visible to me emanating off of the fortress.

It's like a living, breathing thing. The thick magics reaching out and touching me momentarily, rejoicing at the presence of another Necromancer, as that's who I assume must have crafted this massive body of stone. Only someone with my powers over the earth could have fashioned the rock into the almost sentient prison that faces me. There's a thin mist that settles over the whole island, and I think the only reason that I can't feel it is because it hasn't sunk through Death's cloak.

I focus in on what I thought was a storm cloud just above the prison, noticing the way it seems to pulse and quiver.

Woah. That's a lot of dementors.

So, that answers my question as to who built Azkaban… someone like me.

I chuckle wryly at that thought, startling the auror, who's head snaps up sharply.

"What's so funny?" He asks, his voice shaky.

I shrug plaintively. "Feels like home," I say, not bothering to elaborate, the mans horrified expression garnering another snicker out of me.

With a shudder the dinghy rolls into the Azkaban pier, and I quickly stun the auror once more, setting him down on dry… dryish land. Wouldn't do to have him loudly announce my presence to the prison guards. That would put a damper on my evening.

I find myself squinting at the foreboding walls as I trudge up towards them, the stone so black that it seems to drag in the light around it, lending an even heavier presence to the already imposing prison. My boots slip over the shale that lines the weathered path, the sound of stone on stone crisp over the raging sea.

After a short hike, I stand in front of the gates, surprised to see that they're not stone as well. If my predecessor could create this prison with their own magics alone, could they not have fashioned a stone wall as well?

I assume the Ministry must have broken them down and had them replaced with the great wooden doors that stand in front of me, steel laced throughout the heavy beech. I study the massive iron knocker that's fused to the wood, the likeness of a dementors cloak hanging over the metal rung.

With a smile, I take the knocker and slam it heavily into the door, the bass note reverberating through the wood and echoing off the dreary prison walls.

I can already imagine the guard's confusion, wondering who could possibly be coming by Azkaban without an appointment.

The door swings open, a sullen man with raggedy hair staring at me from underneath his graying fringe, a scowl on his face. I take a moment to sigh internally, wondering why in the hells the man would open the door for someone he doesn't know.

Is this what Amelia has to deal with on a daily basis? That poor, poor woman.

"Who the devil are you?" The man grumbles harshly. "We ain't got no appointments nor prisoner transfers right now, so jog on."

Before he can slam the door in my face, I quickly incant imperio, letting the mind control spell wash over the suddenly dazed guard, his eyes fogging up as he stares at me.

"Open the door and let me in," I command, the man quickly allowing me entrance to what should be an impregnable fortress.

Fucking unbelievable. I'm going to have to leave another note for Amelia letting her know how piss-poor security is. Maybe this will help her get a budget increase.

I walk into the entrance of the fortress, and immediately stun the imperiused door guard and tuck him off in the corner, casting a notice-me-not charm over his hiding place and surveying the room, noticing that the inside is just as macabre as the rest. Well, even more so with the gothic interior added to the whole mix.

I'm reminded of a cathedral, although not a regular cathedral. In this case what I imagine the most lavish of satanic churches would be like, if not the devils own castle. Sharp blind-arcades are carved into the walls, the pillars look like broken spines, oddly asymmetrical as they climb to the arched ceiling.

There's a short desk in front of me, a singular lantern floating above it. The desk is quite messy, covered in a smattering of parchment that looks to be idly tossed about, a dingy mug filled with used quills set off to the side. I'm guessing this is the guards work station.

Quaint.

There's three pathways behind the desk, one leading down and the other up to the other levels of the prison. Dead centre, there's a corridor that cuts directly ahead into the centre of the fortress. I'm assuming that that's where the other guards reside, completely unaware that I'm about to wreak havoc on the place.

The most interesting part of the room is that it's supposed to be well lit, judging by the incredible number of torches fastened to the walls in every which way, an obscene mass of candles floating lazily above me, yet the fortress is still dim. It reminds me of Deaths eyes, how they just drink up the light around them.

That just confirms for me that a Necromancer built this place. Those eyes make an impression on you that one wouldn't soon forget.

Thankfully, although it's just another tick on the 'I can't believe this place manages to run itself' box, there's no other guards in the entrance. It looks like they really do relegate everything to the dementors. I honestly can't believe nobody else has tried to break out of here, because the first five minutes of this little job of mine have been embarrassingly easy.

…and Sirius was worried about this?

I take the leftmost passage, leading down. The stairs seem to wind in on themselves, twisting impossibly tight as I silently make my way to the lower levels of the prison, my destination being the dementors nest.

If I want to have this taken care of in one fell swoop, pun not intended, they're going to be the ones doing the work for me. A horde of dementors surging through the prison to devour the souls of anyone with a Dark Mark? That's going to make my life so much simpler.

The darkness seems to envelop me, like a mother cradling a long-lost child as I descend deeper into the mildew soaked depths of Azkaban. The steady clink of dripping condensation taking precedence over the now fading roar of the raging North Sea.

After a few minutes I light the end of my wand, blinking at the sudden change, already accustomed to the pitch black of the subterranean cave - because that's what the winding corridor has morphed into. Rough obsidian glistens everywhere around me like black diamond, trudging down clumsily fashioned steps that seem to stagger over one another, a ramshackle tumble of stone that reminds me of a rough mountain pass that has not been tread upon in years.

The cold permeates everything at this depth, an unworldly cold that seems to just pass right over me, licking lightly at the edges of Death's cloak and accepting my presence.

I suddenly realize that the cold I feel is the sensation of passing through the wards. Ancient wards, steeped in Death's Magic.

No wonder no one has ever ventured this deep into the prison. The presence of the dementors alone would incapacitate someone, let alone the immensely powerful wards that guard their nest.

My gut whirling, I stumble suddenly as I step off of the stairs and onto bedrock, having not looked down the whole while. I'm faced with an impossibly long tunnel, sharp black stone slotted together forming old ruinous walls, like those of Mycenae and Ancient Greece. In the distance, I see something darker than dark, an effervescent whirl of that same vivid black that makes up Death's eyes.

I creep slowly forward, the tumbling mass in front of me stilling as I approach, clumps of dementors detaching from the grim, swirling dance. I watch as one by one they separate, one ragged cloak swooping over the ground towards me, a hand held out in invitation.

After a moment of hesitation, I take the rotting, scabbed appendage and am beckoned into the folds of the dementors cloaks, striding on surprisingly confident feet and finding myself in front of a massive throne, hacked into the wall behind it.

One massive dementor rests lazily in its seat, an off kilter beat emanating from long terrible fingers rolling over the shadowed stone.

"My children have spoken of you," it says, after a brief, yet tense silence. "Another Child of Death come to our Unhallowed Halls." It rises slowly, the movement unnaturally smooth as it tilts its empty face, scrutinizing me. "This one is different, it seems. More."

I blink awkwardly, wondering how to take that. "Uh… that's uh… alright," I stutter, not at all expecting that. Something more? What in the fuck does that mean.

The dementor, laughs. It laughs. A sharp grating wail that rings off the walls, a sound that should be so terribly horrifying is instead simple to my ears, like I've heard it once before.

"Yes… this one is different." The dementor reaches out, one crooked finger folding towards itself in invitation. "Come closer, Child. Let me see your face."

Knees wobbling, I shamble on, nervous footsteps taking me to this otherworldly Lord, a King amongst Demons.

It extends the same finger, gently lifting my chin so that I'm staring into the barren depths of its hood. With its other hand, it reaches over, drawing back the curtains and revealing to me an empty face.

It's eye sockets are empty, yet unearthly pale skin is drawn tight over what should be their gaping maws, sallow cheeks and sunken, asymmetrical bones frame its gray and rotted features. Thin wisps of cobweb like hair float aimlessly over the bald, smooth skull of the creature, a strand tickling over a ragged hole where it's nose used to be. The creatures horribly wide mouth is bared in a crumbling grin that shows far too many cracked and sordid teeth.

"It has been many, many years since I have set mine own eyes upon one like you," the Lord says quizzically, it's razor thin lips pulling back even further, a grin settling over its face that literally stretches from ear to ear. "What brings you here, Child of Death?"

"I have a… mission of sorts," I begin, unsure of how to phrase my question, not having expected there to be any kind of hierarchy that the dementors function under. I had always assumed they were… well, that they just did whatever they felt like. I'm quite sure only Fiendfyre or the like can destroy them, although an Albumancer would probably have plenty of spells in their repertoire to defeat such a thing.

"…a mission you say?"

I nod awkwardly. "Yes, a mission. I came here tonight to rid the world of a number of the patrons here at Azkaban. Specifically, two who have been consumed by your kind, but I came down here…" I pause, fidgeting with shaking fingers.

I can go toe to toe with Dumbledore, literally laugh Death in the face, yet I get tongue-tied and nervous around a race of (understandably terrifying) creatures that I know won't hurt me?

Keep it together Helene!

"I came down here to request you and your… er- children's aid. If they would provide me with a distraction, that would make my job here tonight much, much safer."

The Lord leans forward, resting its knobbly chin on spiderlike fingers. "What kind of distraction did you have in mind, Child?"

I breathe out slowly, suddenly debating my reasons for coming down into the dementors nest. Would they really listen to me? I know the dementor that I spoke with on the train was quite… amicable, when it came to my request to keep away from the students and any of the residents of Hogsmeade. But will this leader be the same? Is this just a kindly façade, and he'll react in the same way that Aragog so recently did?

"I was curious whether your children could sweep through the prison, devouring the souls of any who bear the Dark Mark, that of Lord Voldemort."

The Lord smiles once again, putting its fingers together and leaning backwards in thought. It thumbs its chin, a disturbingly human motion as it considers my question.

"Is that all that you wish for? A distraction, and a distraction alone?" it asks, it's empty brow raised.

"What do you mean?"

Laughing once again, the Lord scratches the side of its head, holding its hand out questioningly. "Why simply stop there? A distraction? Why not let us sweep through the countryside, feasting on all those in our path. Such filling and delicious carnage I have not enjoyed in many years. What of the guards within this very fortress? Are they ripe? Their mortal seed aching to be plucked? Is it not their time?"

I can feel my face falling in horror, my disgust plainly shown. Once more, the dementor cackles, clutching its heaving ribs as it devolves into a fit of laughter, the skin around its eyes drawn impossibly tight, squinting as it continues to mock me.

"You find that reprehensible, don't you?" it manages to say between rattling breaths. "The idea of snuffing out so many terribly bright candles? What if it was their time? What if it was necessary? Would you allow them to continue on? Living long past their time, a bastardization, something wrong and unnatural?"

I consider that for a second, before shaking my head. I remember Death's Book, the one that denoted my time of death. Everyone has a time and a place, and it seems that it's pre-ordained.

"Only if it was their time to go, would I accept that. No sooner, no later," I reason, wondering over this sudden philosophical debate. "But if they didn't need to die? They should live, and they should live as long as they're supposed to."

"Yes, an excellent answer," the Lord approves, raising its hand in recognition. "My children will aid you, and they will take the souls of those within these Unhallowed walls marked with the serpentine blasphemer's brand, for their lives were signed away the moment they took his crest."

I bow my head in thanks, the Lord inclining its head in respect, before turning back to see a solitary line of dementors, two walls of them standing at attention like pliable soldiers, their sullen unseen faces staring forward unblinkingly.

I walk, my steps more confident, an unseen power driving me forward as I march through the unholy corridor, the dementors falling behind me in ranks, silently drifting as they follow me back up the winding steps. I find myself muttering, "in their house at Azkaban, dead men wait dreaming," reminded of an old American horror writer.

Almost sped on by the influx of Black Magic, I step back into the prison check-in, the steady stomp of guards thundering down the main hall as they come to investigate the sudden creeping ice that cracks and hisses over the walls.

"Oh… oh my God," one mutters, his voice already wilting under the effects of the dementors, their deadly presence suffocating him.

I turn to see the man who spoke, a fresh-faced twenty something who's mouth is hanging open as he shrinks back, plastering himself against the wall.

His companions stumble in behind him, eyes widening as they set sights on the terrifying collection before them. The aurors let out sharp curses, a few of them feebly attempting to cast a patronus, but failing miserably as the lights from the end of their wands flicker, impotent and unready for the sudden onset of misery and fear radiating off of the host behind me.

"Please, just go back to work and pretend I was never here," I say, bowing my head ever so slightly towards the catatonic aurors.

The same man… boy from before steps forward, his arm trembling as he holds his wand out in front of him, an unconfident sneer on his face.

"N- no! Y- you'll… you'll be staying with us!" he shouts, sounding unsure of himself. "Y- you can't g- go around casting d- d- dark magic like that and just e- expect to get away with it!"

I shrug apathetically, snapping off a blindingly fast stunner that impacts the aurors chest, knocking him head over heels into his compatriots and bowling them over.

A few have the strength to get back to their feet, a few poorly cast spells sluggishly moving towards me. I bat them away absentmindedly, sending off an area stunner to knock out the remainder of the aurors, the miniature resistance falling in moments.

I quirk my neck to the side, inviting the dementors to follow me. We move upwards, slowly but surely making our way to the top level of the prison. Wails and screams echo off of the walls, the prisoners shrieking their protests at the sudden onslaught of dementors. I cringe at the scent of piss and shit, the whole of the upper floor like a festering wound of rot and bile. I pause briefly, before remembering that these people are monsters, and they would have had their comeuppance eventually.

"Take the ones with the Dark Mark," I command, the dementors silently accepting, their robes billowing in unseen winds as they speed towards their feasts.

I continue forward, scanning for the two empty husks that are Tracey's long forgotten, very much punished birth parents. I listen as the shrieks of the prisoners are gradually cut off, flinching slightly at the horrific sound of their voices being steadily silenced, the others increasing in pitch as they begin to recognize their coming fate.

One voice stands out over the rest, a high-pitched cackling, manic and beyond unhinged.

"Hello Bellatrix," I effuse, turning my eyes towards the maddened woman, her spindly black hair falling in limp curls over her prison rags, bloodshot eyes held wide in reverence.

"My Lord! My Lord! I knew you would come!" she screams, her horribly thin and bony hands wrapped around the bars as she attempts to hold herself up, already having worked herself into a frenzy at the prospect of the return of Voldemort.

"Your Lord? Bellatrix, you must have really lost it haven't you?" I gasp mockingly, placing my hand over my shadowed mouth. I lean forward, malice tinging my voice as I gaze upon the woman who killed my godfather in another life, the one who led me stumbling to my death and rebirth. "Lord Voldemort? The Half-Blood bastard who has you convinced that he's pureblood royalty? No, that's not me, although he would certainly love to be me, I imagine."

She blinks, rearing back, confused. "Who are you?" she growls, fingers gripping the bars much more tightly, her sharp knuckles looking as if they're about to split the skin of her hands. She glances about wildly, all of a sudden taking in the horde of dementors that is currently feasting upon her past comrades in arms in a whole new light. "What are you?"

"Why, a Necromancer of course."

She gasps sharply, pupils shrinking in fear as I raise my wand, waving it in front of her.

"Now, I know this isn't going to make any sense at all, but it doesn't really matter what with the fact that you're going to die in about… I don't know, a minute or so, but I'm going to exact a little bit of revenge for something that hasn't happened yet."

"You're mad… you're mad!" she shrieks, stumbling backwards, getting as far as possible from my now glowing wand, the horrid bright green of the killing curse shining from its tip.

I look at the wand, realizing that I've never quite attempted some of the more interesting facets of Blood Magic, instead having relegated myself to rituals and the like. I ponder for a moment what spell would be best for her.

Blood boiling? Bit too much. What about a lance of blood? No, too simple.

What to do?

"Ah!" I cry, snapping my fingers. "I've come up with just the thing for you, now, you stay right there, alright?"

Bellatrix shrinks into the corner, before steeling herself and glaring at me, rolling her shoulders as she faces me, head held high. "Do what you must. At least let me die with a little dignity," she spits.

I shrug. "Beggars can't be choosers Bella. You murdered your own blood. Murdered me in fact," I mention, her brow narrowing in confusion. "Well, not yet, but you will if given the chance, so I'm going to let you go out in a perfectly poetic way. You were a Black once, right?"

"Y- yes?"

"Well, what happens if your blood turns black? Maybe a little mud in your blood, if we're feeling biblical," I say, flicking my wand and incanting, "Sanguis et luto."

A nauseatingly orange light strikes her in the gut, her eyes widening in disbelief as her veins begin to thicken with sludge, a capillary in her nose bursting, runny black sediment ebbing out of her nostril. She begins to choke breathlessly, blood no longer carrying oxygen to her lungs, her face paling as she begins to suffocate on nothing.

With a great heaving breath, she collapses to the ground, clawing frantically at her throat as her blood turns to mud. With grim finality, she shudders, one final creaking gasp sneaking out of her lips as she dies.

I let out a slow hissing breath, my gut churning with revulsion at the horrific sight I just witnessed.

Shite, that was way more awful than I thought it would be. Cutting off someone's head is much easier.

Well, that's a sentence I never thought I would think in my entire life.

I quell my suddenly raging stomach, bile rising in my throat as I turn away from the macabre sight, striding forward until I come across a cell that radiates an odd form of magic, the only part of Azkaban that feels like Life instead of Death.

I glance in, instantly recognizing the two emaciated shells that are propped up against the wall in front of me, a magical intravenous drip slowly working away, minds long dead, yet their chests rising and falling at a snail's pace, the only sign that they can be technically considered alive.

I can't tear my eyes away from the vile sight, taking in the bedraggled, greasy hair that hasn't been cut in many, many years. Lifeless eyes resting in sunken pockets simply gaze ahead, looking at nothing, just staring endlessly.

With utmost disgust, I flick my finger, two bullets of air drilling through their skulls and spattering the wall behind them with gray matter and a few flecks of bone.

No matter what someone's done, they shouldn't be subjected to that kind of insult.

Finally done, I rush up to the nearest window, moulding the bars and pushing them away with an errant wave of my hand as I stick my head out into the cold and breathe in fresh air, gulping it down and relishing in the tinge of salt, momentarily free of the pungent stench of rot and bodily fluids. I can feel my gut still churning from the thick scent, disgust plaguing me as the cloying sensation clings to my throat.

That was... a lot of killing. I don't think I'm ever going to be accustomed to something like that, and I hope I never am.

"Jesus fucking Christ, what a night," I mutter, scratching my cheek and looking out over the tumultuous sea, listening as the dementors begin to make their way back to their abode, their rattling breaths beginning to grow quieter and quieter until they're drowned out by the roaring ocean breeze.

That blood turning spell on Bellatrix was just... well, it was much more... more, than I thought it was going to be. The dementors? I know that was the plan, but man is that ever awful to watch.

"What the fuck," I groan, shaking my head. I really, really wish I could still feel the effects of alcohol right now

I mean, I'm doing better than when I took out Lockhart. But, considering everything I've gone through, I should technically be nearly catatonic right now, a gibbering mess screaming in the corner and begging for her mother after seeing such a thing. I chuckle awkwardly, my eyes still set ahead, watching as waves crash against the prison's shores. I guess that I'm made of much tougher stuff than most.

It's kind of a silly thought... but it sort of makes me wonder if I'm really turning out to be like Voldemort? Is there even a chance, no matter how minute that Dumbledore right? I mean, does this make me any better than him?

God, I need to figure my shit out.

I feel too tired to even jump in fright when I hear a familiar voice demand, "Put your hands up! Show me your wand! Now!"

I slowly turn around, cursing silently as I see Amelia Bones at the end of the hall, a disgusted look on her face as she holds her wand in front of her, the end shining bright green. Shacklebolt and Robards stand behind her, both glancing between me and the massacre they've walked in on.

"You heard me! Show me your wand!"

I put my hands up in false surrender, my Yew and Blackthorn wand hanging lightly between my fingertips.

"Amelia, I wish you no harm… I'm not here to hurt any of you," I announce, as I continue to keep my hands in the air, her eyes locked on me as she hesitantly approaches.

"Wish me no harm? Wish me no harm?" she hisses, gesturing wildly at the subtle carnage around her. "You killed all these people! Is this why you broke into my office? Is this what you wanted, whoever the fuck you are?"

"Well, I'm not as confident as when I began, but... yes, this is what I wanted," I reply, glancing hesitantly towards the Death Eaters cells, one empty hand thrust out from between the bars, clutching nothing but air. "I originally came here to… well, I would be giving you too many hints as to who I really am if I told you." My breath hitches as I take in her features, cracked lips and wide, furious eyes.

No one should have to see something like this, especially not someone like her who lived and fought through the last war.

"I'm sorry, so deeply sorry that you have to walk in on this… this nightmare of a situation. Just know that what I've done today is necessary."

She throws her hands up in exasperation, forgetting for a moment that she has me at wandpoint as she laughs sardonically. "Necessary? You're a Merlin-be-damned maniac. What in the seven hells could make this necessary? Why shouldn't I just kill you where you stand?"

"Voldemort," I state succinctly.

"What did you say?" she growls, hackles raised.

"I'm here because of Voldemo-"

Before I can finish what I'm saying, Amelia immediately flicks her wand, a vibrant red curse racing towards my head. I reflexively throw up a shield, a rapidly conjured wall of marble shattering as the spell strikes it. She follows up with a frenzy of cutting and rotting curses, a barrage of neon lights sent down the corridor in my direction.

I throw up an aegis fortis, feeling the pull on my magic as the spells rain down upon it, the shield flickering underneath the incredible onslaught.

"Voldemort? Voldemort? That monster killed my family! He killed my husband and my sister!" she swears harshly, my eyes widening as she continues to attack me.

Oh God, she thinks I'm with Voldemort!

"No! No! I'm not with Voldemort! I'm fighting him! He's coming back!" I shout in exasperation, feeling terrible for the enraged woman as she rapidly flings spells at me.

"Then who the fuck are you?"

"I can't tell you!" I argue, batting away another incredibly lethal curse. Is she even allowed to cast those? "There's a goddamn war on and nobody knows! He's coming back, and soon! I'm doing everything I can to make sure he's put down for good!"

Amelia continues to batter me with spells, Shacklebolt and Robards struck dumb, glued to the floor as they watch her attack me with a deep-seated fervor, a veritable cloud of every curse under the sun bursting against my shield, some being absorbed while others reflect off of it, taking massive chunks out of the magically reinforced wall and spraying silt across the dingy prison floor.

I can't help but admire her as she pushes forward. Man is she ever one hell of a witch.

I notice an opening in her barrage, desperately sneaking in an expelliarmus and nearly cheering as it strikes her hand, her thin and gnarled wand flying from her grasp and into mine. I hold my hands up placatingly, slowly setting the wand down on the ground and backing away with a hint of trepidation in my steps.

"Like I said, I'm not going to hurt you." I repeat myself, praying that she'll begin to calm down, even just by a bit.

She stands there glaring at me, her fierce gaze burning through Death's cloak, cutting through the immortal fabric like it's not even there, my gut wrenching at the sheer amount of pain reflected in her sharpened pupils.

"I'm so sorry," I mutter, shaking my head. "I'm so, so sorry. I just… god damnit. This wasn't supposed to end like this."

Amelia stares at me like I'm insane. Honestly, I probably am a bit at this point. I wouldn't be surprised "What the hell did you expect to happen?"

"I…"

My breath catches in my throat, and I snort at what I'm about to say. "Well, this I guess. I just didn't expect to see you," I admit.

She shakes her head, waving her hand angrily. "Well, fuck off. Get out of here... Just… piss off."

"Amelia!"

"Shut it Robards! You think we can fight her?" she bellows, jabbing her finger in my direction.

"But… she just…" He trails off, gesturing silently at the corpse filled cells.

"Fuck the Death Eaters," she spits, still frazzled from her emotional outburst, no longer the just the indomitable woman I first met. Instead, I can see that she's not all stern, not just this unbreakable amazon of a woman. No, she's also someone who's gone through more than anyone should, a woman who's lost her home and entire family to a crazed madman with a childish thirst for vengeance. That's going to leave you with a healthy dose of righteous anger, one that she directed at me. "You want to try taking her in when she could just as easily wipe the floor with the two of you as she did with me? Go ahead, be my guest."

Robards looks as if he's about to argue with her, before slamming his mouth shut and shaking his head, grumbling quietly.

Amelia glances back in my direction. "Get out of my sight," she growls.

"I'm sorry." I apologize one last time as I blink out of the prison and back to my room, collapsing into my bed.

I just lie there and stare at the ceiling for a while, running over the events of the night and wondering why on earth I'm second guessing myself so much.

I went there with murder in mind, and it turned into a mass execution.

But I already knew that would happen.

So why? Is it because I don't feel that I did it for a good cause, or not a good enough cause? Was it because it wasn't revenge? I seem to be quite used to that type of murder at this point. Does that make it better? Because those people should have died long ago, does that absolve me of my guilt?

I chuckle harshly, biting my tongue softly as I ponder that. This is a very odd time for me to start wondering about my morals.

I've thought of myself as some sort of harbinger of doom for Voldemort and his lackeys ever since Death told me what I was, yet I still find myself mildly disgusted by what I've done. It's not a ton of disgust, but it's still disgust.

My thoughts being, those people were already prisoners, they weren't doing any harm to anyone being locked up there. They would have just rotted away anyways if I go on to defeat Voldemort next year. So, while I felt it necessary to execute them, was that the right choice? I mean, shit, I'm only what? Seventeen, eighteen years old? Since when does someone my age make decisions like this? I'm not really second guessing myself per se, I'm just pissed off that I have to do this sort of thing.

...and God, I hate having to do this sort of thing.

"I'd thought you'd be used to it by now."

I groan angrily, rubbing my eyes as I sit up to see Death standing at the foot of my bed, a stunning woman with sheer white hair pulled up in an elaborate braid standing beside him, hand in hand.

I pause to study her, my gaze drawn to the absolute symbol of all things beautiful. Her eyes shine, almost radiating in their brilliance, an equal opposite to deaths murky, impossible black. She smiles kindly at me, yet her eyebrows are pulled back almost in sadness. In pity. Her skin is rich, like polished gold, a healthy dusting of freckles forming a bow over her strong, yet dainty nose.

Like Aphrodite come to Earth.

"Death?" I ask, squinting tiredly at him, my eyes flitting back to the beautiful woman. "…Life?"

"One and the same," she answers serenely, looking towards her… well, her husband. "Dear?"

Death kisses her knuckles, letting go of her hand as he walks over to me, sitting down beside me on my bed.

"So, you visited the Isle of Death," he says, looking at me with those empty eyes. "It has a tendency to claim the lives of those upon it."

"Isle of Death?" I echo, incredulous. "What, is it yours?"

Death nods. "As a matter of fact, it is. Well, in many ways it's mine. That island is the closest part of the Earth to my domain."

"Wouldn't that be the Veil of Death?"

"No, that's a portal. Two very different things," Death deflects, shaking his head. "Now… I didn't come here to debate the metaphysical. I just wanted to check up, see how you're doing. Tonight was quite the night for you, and I wanted to let you know that I agree with your decision. Those people you killed tonight got what was coming to them."

I scoff in confusion. "Death, telling me that they got what was coming to them? Aren't you supposed to be impartial or something? All deaths are equal, all deaths are the same?"

"Whoever said that?" Death asks, one eyebrow raised. "Just because I'm Death doesn't mean that I don't look forward to seeing disgusting specimens like the ones you put down arrive on my doorstep."

Life sighs loudly, patting her husband on the shoulder. "Please, let me speak," she says, Death acquiescing and standing up, Life taking his spot on my bed.

"Helene, what happened tonight was awful, but necessary," she intones, her blindingly white eyes boring into mine. "All things live, and all things die. This is part of life."

"I understand that. I don't regret what I did, but I massacred them," I argue, running my hand through my hair. "I went in there and I butchered them in their cells like animals. I understand killing the enemy. This is war. But how does executing them like that make me any better than the scum I'm fighting?"

"Would they not have done the same or worse to you?" Death interrupts, spindly arms crossed over his chest.

"That doesn't exactly make me feel all that fantastic, but yeah?"

"So that in turn doesn't make what you've done any worse than what they would," Life continues, her cheeks dimpling as she smiles at me once again. "Did you enjoy killing them?"

I start in horror. "No! Of course not! Bellatrix… well, killing her felt like a weight coming off my shoulders, but… no, I didn't enjoy it at all."

"Then you are already better than they are."

I fidget with my hands, staring dumbly at them as I wrestle with what Life has just told me. I'm not thick enough to not take Godly advice to heart.

"I mean, I guess. Still a shitty job. I shouldn't be a soldier at my age," I complain.

"Yes, it's awful, but you know that you will kill again, yes?"

"I… yeah. I will," I concede, shrugging my shoulders. "Well, looks like I have the World Cup to look forward to, to flex that particular killing muscle of mine."

Suddenly, Life pulls me into a hug. A God, a fucking God, pulling me into a hug.

I squeak in surprise as she wraps her arms around me, cradling my head under her chin as she strokes my hair. "Be at rest. Sleep, and know that you will see me once more, that I promise," she whispers, a heavy weight settling over my eyes as drowsiness washes over me, the overpoweringly calming presence of Life itself bleeding away my stress and frustration. Before I can even protest, I sink into a deep slumber.

A touch of Lovecraft in this chapter. Just a smidgen.

Sanguis et luto: Blood to mud. (Latin)

timefreak: I'm glad you enjoyed it! I really tried to find a balance between combat and that standard Helene snark, I'm super happy it came out the way I intended it to.

Bearmauls: Oh absolutely. Sirius isn't still… whole, per se. After being trapped in Azkaban for so long, it's no wonder that he doesn't even want to discuss the place. For his adoptive niece to want to go there on some harebrained not-quite-assassination? It makes sense for him to frantically argue against it.

Azaira: I try not to throw in too many standard tropes, as much as they're a part of fanfiction. Basilisk hide armour is one of those for me.

PascalDragon: It's really some sneaky stuff. Helene can be quite devious when she sets her mind to it.