This story was written for The Houses Competition, Year 6, Round 1
House: Gryffindor
Class: Head of House
Prompts: 6. [Setting] Azkaban
Drabble/Standard: Standard
Word Count: 2973 words (Google docs)
Betas: Verity Grahams, Claude Amelia Song
Graveyard of Broken Promises
"Are you sure you intend to go inside? Look at the place!"
Even if his companion hadn't made such an exclamation, Eldritch would've found his brown eyes drawn to the monstrous structure before him. Charcoal-grey stones covered in moss formed a triangular fortress that towered into the sky. He thought he spotted crows circling above it, but he instantly dismissed this as impossible; they were too far out in the North Sea. A set of iron gates barred their entrance to the prison, the insides beyond which were shrouded in darkness.
As the wind howled around them, whipping his cloak about his ankles, Eldritch couldn't help but wonder if perhaps Albert was right. Did he really intend on going inside? Was it safe? Couldn't he have found the information he needed from the comfort of his London office?
No, he couldn't stop now. It was the information he'd already learnt that'd sent him here in the first place; he needed to remember his mission. He wouldn't fail any of his people.
"Of course, Albert; I'm no cringeling. I need to see for myself what we're dealing with if I'm to make a decision on Azkaban's future. I'm sure we're perfectly"—a shiver the likes of which he'd never known before enveloped his body as a cloaked figure emerged from behind the iron gates—"safe…"
The brunet shoved his hand into his pocket and gripped his wand. After letting out a rather unmasculine yelp, Albert also withdrew his wand, pointing it shakily at the creature before them. The creature drew a rattly breath, causing the hairs on the back of Eldritch's neck to stand on end. If he hadn't prepared himself for coming across a few Dementors, he probably would've turned tail and jumped back into the boat they'd used to sail to the island.
He cleared his throat, hoping to hide the quiver within his voice. "I-I'm—ahem, I'm Mr Eldritch Diggory, British Minister for Magic. I'm here with my fellow minister from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Mr Albert Boot. We intend to inspect these premises, which are owned by the Ministry of Magic..."
The creature didn't speak, continuing instead to breathe noisily from within the depths of its tattered black cloak.
"Er, if you please, we shall enter now."
The creature extended a hand composed of nothing more than rotting flesh and bone, causing him to take an involuntary step backwards. It hesitated for a moment, as though contemplating pulling the two wizards forward, before curling a bony finger and motioning for them to walk forward.
The creak of the iron gates opening sent another shiver down Eldritch's spine, but it was nothing compared to what they found inside.
"Merlin's beard," Albert uttered, his pale blue eyes growing wide as he covered his nose with his sleeve.
"Merlin's beard, indeed."
It was worse than he'd feared. Much worse.
They hadn't even walked down one corridor, their shoes echoing on the slimy stone floors, when the true horror of the prison was made known. The stench of stale urine and vomit was unbearable. Flickering torches illuminated one cell after another, each crowded with wizards. They were reduced to nothing more than skeletal figures, pressing their gaunt faces against the bars as they vied for attention.
"Please… water… please."
No tears seemed to be able to fall from their dead eyes.
"I didn't do it… Tell them I didn't do it… Mother, I didn't…"
And yet, they were the lucky ones.
As they rounded a few corners, their breaths coming out in icy puffs as the feeling of impending doom closed in, the suffering of other prisoners became more apparent. Scratch marks lined the floor where some had tried to claw their way out of their cells.
"Halt!"
"Eldritch, please, I beseech you… let's hurry…"
"Why is that man rocking? What's he in here for?" Eldritch demanded, ignoring his trembling companion.
The Dementor, which had followed them inside, simply shook its head.
Allowing his eyes to adjust to the light, Eldritch peered inside the cell they stood before. Tucked in the corner beneath a soiled rag was an emaciated wizard. Stringy brown hair hung across his forehead and over his hollow cheekbones. Had it not been for his rocking, Eldritch would've assumed the man deceased; as he watched on, the poor miscreant didn't seem to notice that an unknown liquid dripped from the low, stone ceiling onto his frayed robes.
Where was the snarling face, the look of devilish desire? Where was the cussing and spitting?
"Don't go feeling sorry for him. He's nothing but a murderer, I bet. He's in here, safely tucked away from society."
But he wasn't there—not all of him, anyway.
"This is not what Azkaban was intended for. How long has this been going on?" He turned to Albert, who stood as far away from the cell as he possibly could. "I cannot allow this. Not under my leadership, not when—You! Stop I say! You're doing this!"
Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen a flash of black. The Dementor, taking advantage of their distraction, had lunged forward. Its hood was pressed against the iron bars, a great rasping sound emanating from it. The prisoner inside whimpered and ceased rocking.
The beast was taunting the man, stealing his life energy…
Soon, the man went limp.
"I say, stop!"
With a wave of his wand, a feeble white light streamed towards the Dementor. It wasn't enough to knock it down, but it did turn away from the prisoner.
"Right, I've seen enough. My hunch was correct; this place, like so many others I've inherited, is ill-run. Forthwith, I'll be drawing up the proper documents to propose its closure."
"But—"
Eldritch didn't wait for his companion's protest. Marching past the Dementor, the brunet headed back the way they'd come.
"As soon as we get back—Do you hear that?" Yet again, he found himself halting mid-stride.
"The screaming or the wailing? You know, I'm not that big a fan of ghosts..."
Indeed, such sounds had echoed around the prison during their stay, but Eldritch had chosen to suppress them. This sound was different; it was an eerie, almost mournful humming, and it was coming from the corridor to his left.
"This way!"
He sprinted towards the sound, Albert reluctantly at his heels.
"Now, really, I do insist we—Eldritch?"
The prison had been designed to contain both witches and wizards, but he'd yet to come across a criminal of the fairer sex. Eldritch stood stock-still in front of the cell the sound was coming from, unable to look away.
Inside, a woman no older than four-and-twenty sat with her body resting against the bars. She was the very picture of perfection: long blonde curls framed well-rounded cheeks and eyes of the brightest blue. Her rosebud lips were pressed together as she hummed to herself, no doubt to ward off the evil around her.
She didn't seem to see them; if anything, she stared straight through him, her eyes haunted. Her body trembled, making her appear even more frail.
She looked so innocent...
"Eldritch, please…"
He shook his head, coming out of a trance. He didn't know what crime this woman had committed, but even the worst offense he could imagine wouldn't make him believe she deserved such a fate as this. No one did.
"Alright, let us take our leave."
X
The boat rocked to and fro, making Eldritch glad he'd not yet eaten. Neither he nor Albert complained, though, as they sailed further away from Azkaban.
Eldritch's eyes remained trained on the building as the grey sky above descended upon it. He was sure he could still hear the screams, the wailing, and, more loudly still, the blonde's mournful humming above the roaring wind and crashing waves tossing them about.
"Please tell me we won't venture there again," Albert said, his face turning green.
"Never," he replied, vowing to close the prison post-haste.
The echo of his footsteps competed with the moans of prisoners around him. He didn't believe he'd ever have dared return to Azkaban, yet one week after his visit, he found himself doing just that. This time, he was accompanied by a wizard dressed head-to-toe in silky black robes, his equally dark eyes flashing with excitement.
They followed the familiar path down the cold, dripping corridors, eventually stopping just outside the reason for his return.
Eldritch cleared his throat. "Good afternoon, Miss."
There was no humming this time. Instead, the woman raised her head slightly, revealing the blue eyes that'd haunted Eldritch. Every night, he would close his eyes to slumber, only to wake drenched in sweat. The blonde would call to him in his dreams, sometimes pleading for help, other times rocking, or, more recently, screaming as she was devoured by a Dementor.
He'd tried to help her and the other inmates from his office, but alas, he felt drawn back to these wretched walls.
He had to know... Who was she? Why was she there? What was her fate if he didn't succeed in closing Azkaban? He'd tried to find her file, yet records hadn't been accurately kept.
"Forgive me for not introducing myself. I'm Eld—Mr Diggory. And you are?"
Still, there was no response as she bowed her head. It was then, as her previously soft and silky hair now hung tangled and limp over her shoulder, that he noticed what she was wearing. Filthy grey and white striped rags most unbecoming of a woman clung to her slightly thinner frame, torn in patches where she knelt. When his eyes roamed towards her blackened bare feet, he saw that the cloth laid in what looked like mud.
How he hadn't smelt it before was beyond him.
"Do they not have chamber pots?" he asked, turning to Mr Avery.
The man shrugged. "Some do, some don'. I'm only 'ere once a month for my collections. Speakin' of, I must get to it."
Avery huffed as he unlocked the neighbouring cell. Eldritch was half prepared for the woman inside to come clambering out, but all he could hear was a few grunts from Avery.
He turned back to the poor creature before him, hoping that, somehow, she would speak. Although he'd previously caught her humming to herself, he didn't think her mad. In fact, she seemed to be just as sane as his wife was, and certainly no different to other civilised witches he knew.
"Give me a hand, will ya?"
Eldritch tore his eyes away from the blonde—and immediately wished he hadn't.
Avery was puffing as he dragged another female out. Her face was concealed by dark, greasy hair, and her body was limp.
"Heavens! What happened to the poor wretch? Did she starve?" His mind wandered to the scrap of mouldy bread he'd noticed in the blonde's cell.
Avery gave a short bark of laughter. "Nah, prob'ly the Dementors. They make 'em lose their will to live after a while."
Eldritch's eyes wandered over the deceased. If he thought the blonde's robes were bad, this woman had barely anything to protect her modesty. He quickly diverted his gaze.
"Where shall you bury her?" he whispered, turning his attention to Avery's face.
The man grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "Bury? Ha! Mate, if I buried all the inmates in 'ere, it'd take me months. No, I come 'ere once a month and dump as many as I can."
"Dump them?"
"In the ocean, o'course. Ain't no graveyard round 'ere. 'Course, the sharks prob'ly prefer 'em fresher, but only so many I can get to.
"Now, are you gonna help me or not? Or are you gonna soil your cracker farts at the thought?" Avery said, chuckling again.
Eldritch turned away, appalled at his uncouth language. He turned his focus back to the woman, his mind reeling.
Where was the dignity? These people were being treated no better than animals—the numbers tattooed on their necks hadn't escaped his attention, either. Surely, even the lowest of criminals still deserved to be treated humanely?
"Save me."
It was nothing more than a whisper. Eldritch stared at the blonde, hoping that, despite her continued focus on the ground, she'd speak again.
Without thinking, he reached through the bars, grasping her tiny hands. "I'll help you, I promise."
"Preposterous!"
"Outrageous!"
"Do you need to be carted away to St Mungo's?"
Eldritch took a deep breath, trying to quell the anger shaking his body. He'd known his proposal to set up a prison elsewhere—without Dementors—would be controversial, but he'd thought he'd have made some breakthrough after three hours of negotiations. His fellow ministers' outbursts said otherwise.
"Gentlemen, please. I understand your concerns, but I doubt the Dementors will revolt."
"They'll revolt if they have no souls to feed on!" Perseus Parkinson said.
"That's my point!" Eldritch slammed his fists on the table. "Men and women are losing the will to live! How would you like to sit in your own waste, day in, day out, with little to eat?
"They're going mad! Gentlemen, I've seen things in Azkaban that would make your darkest nightmares seem like pleasant fantasies." He peered into each face, daring them to object.
"Yes, but Eldritch… These aren't ordinary people. They're criminals—evil, despicable people," Albert piped up, nervously twisting his moustache.
Albert jumped as Eldritch hit the table again. What did they not understand?
"Not all of them!"
He peered around again, but his fellow ministers seemed to find the floor, ceiling, and their own nails more interesting. Only one man's cool, grey eyes met his.
"Forgive me, Minister, but I do believe there is a more pressing issue," Arcturus Malfoy said. "One could begin to question your true motives for pursuing this matter. I only object to your request simply to spare you and your family from scandal."
Eldritch's bushy eyebrows shot up. "True motives? Scandal?"
Arcturus leant forward. "There's been talk that you only care because of a certain female prisoner. We must think of your wife's reputation…"
"I beg your pardon? I'm here to help all prisoners."
"I'm sure you are," Arcturus said, glancing sideways at Perseus. "Alas, we should wrap this up. You don't look well, Minister."
Indeed, he hadn't been feeling the best, but he'd simply put it down to travelling in the cold weather. He'd not allow his illness or the Minister's sinful ideas to put him off, though.
"Minister? You're shaking... Shall we go?"
"Just one moment."
Eldritch took a deep, rattly breath, sounding quite like a Dementor. It'd been a stupid idea to return. He'd developed Dragon Pox, and although it had nothing to do with travelling in cold weather several times that month, it hadn't helped his chest. Still, he couldn't seem to rid his mind of the image of pleading blue eyes, and he found himself yet again hiding down a familiar dingy corridor.
Peering around the corner, his eyes fell upon the blonde who continued to haunt his dreams. She was nothing more than a shell of a human now; her pale skin was stretched thin over her bones, her lips moving but no sound coming out.
Almost as though she sensed him, she looked up. Her eyes scanned the corridor hungrily, the last ounce of hope within them stabbing at his heart. Not seeing anything, though, she shuddered and retreated further back into the shadows.
Eldritch took an involuntary step forward, desperate to wrap his arms around the poor creature and comfort her.
It was this exact thought, though, that had him stepping back again. He was a married man; it was highly inappropriate to entertain such thoughts. Arcturus Malfoy was right; he was becoming too invested in this prison. Besides, he had other, law-abiding citizens he needed to help.
"Alright, Albert, let's head off. I'm feeling off again, anyway," he said, turning his back.
He'd help when and if he could from his office; after all, they were only criminals... right?
"Oh, not again!"
"I can't help it, Ismelda!" Eldritch pulled himself upright, his cheeks burning.
He couldn't believe he'd wet the bed again. Worse still, he hadn't been able to hide it from his wife. He wasn't sure if it was a normal part of his affliction, but it didn't lessen how degrading it was, anyway.
"I need some fresh air."
Ismelda clicked her tongue, pushing him back against the pillows. "Oh no you don't."
"I've been bedridden for the past two months; I feel like a caged animal! At least get me some decent food."
"Rest."
He closed his eyes, knowing that he was unlikely to get any sleep. His dreams lately consisted of nothing more than darkness, broken by the occasional appearance of a mysterious shadowy figure. Something niggled in the back of his mind, like he was forgetting something.
All he had to worry about, though, was getting himself better.
Salty ocean spray mixed with the cold, hard rain soaking into his cloak. The howling wind stung his cheeks, competing with the cries coming from inside the dreaded stone building. He didn't care; his chest couldn't get any more infected.
Eldritch crouched down, running a finger along the jagged edge of rock jutting out of the ground. It wasn't a proper headstone, but it was sturdy enough to have had a name carved into it: Angeline.
Her name had been Angeline.
"I insist we leave," Albert called, shivering.
Sighing, he stood up. His eyes roamed over the charcoal-grey walls of Azkaban, imprinting the prison into his memory. Even though he'd be haunted by Angeline's blue eyes forever, he was determined to never forget those he'd let down. His illness—no doubt a punishment for abandoning them—had served as a reminder of the indignities they'd suffered. At least now, with the erection of a graveyard, a tiny portion of dignity would be restored.
Additional notes: This story is based on information from the Wiki. Eldritch Diggory really did form a committee to move Azkaban, but his motives in this story may or may not differ from canon (there was little information). As such, only Eldritch and Albert (who became the next Minister for Magic—and completely screwed it up) are canon characters, whilst the others are more or less OCs.
Since this story is based in the early 18th century, some dialogue differs from my usual style in an attempt to fit it.
Cracker farts= trousers (yes, I know, small minds… :'))
Cringeling= coward
Four-and-twenty=24 years old
Thank you for reading! Xx