Author's Note: Yes, it has been a very, very long time. I'm very, very sorry for the absence and so very, very grateful to those of you have stayed with this story and pestered me to update. If it helps at all, you haven't been waiting as nearly as long as Robert has…
Chapter 63 – The Promise
The last vestiges of sunlight glimmered down onto cold black stones. The dark ocean heaved and swelled, waves breaking relentlessly against the high rocky walls that barred their path, and in the East Wing of Azkaban, a man stood at his cell door, staring through the bars at a woman he never thought he'd see again.
"You look older."
The woman frowned, torchlight casting flickering shadows across a lined face.
"Did you hear anything I just said?" she asked, peering into the darkness of his cell.
Even though the Ministry had dismissed the Dementors years ago, something of their presence still lingered in the dank corridors and the constant howl of the wind and one way or another, the old adage still held: Azkaban got to everyone in the end. Perhaps even the indomitable Robert Avery had succumbed at last.
"You never look older." He tilted his head slightly and it seemed to her that there was a clouded look in those light brown eyes.
"What are you talking about?" she asked impatiently. This was not how this was supposed to go. Thirteen years she'd waited for this moment, and now instead of fear and apologies, she got meaningless babble. She would have settled for anger, defiance even, but there was nothing but resignation in his stance.
"You're going to die tonight, Mr Avery. Don't you have anything to say?" she demanded, pushing her face close to the small grill so that she was almost nose to nose with him. "Don't you care?"
"It's usually Katy," Robert replied blankly, his eyes retaining their slightly vacant look despite the frown creasing his forehead.
"What is?" she asked, exasperated. Katy was his daughter, she remembered, but she didn't know what she had to do with anything.
"The person you kill." He blinked, then shook his head. "Why do you look older?"
"It's been more than thirteen years since we last met," she snapped, drawing away from the bars and pulling a golden pocket watch out of her robes: less than two minutes to go. "People age. You don't look the picture of youth yourself."
"But you're always the same." Robert drew pale, thin hands over his face, his voice dropping to a hush. "Always."
Muriel gave up, turning her back on him and looking down the corridor at the rows of black steel doors. There were other occupants behind them, all sleeping soundly in the dark. Soon, that's all they'd ever be able to do.
She scowled to herself, snapping the watch shut and stowing it away. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
She'd been so hopeful all those years ago. After the Defeat of the Dark Lord, when the old corrupt government officials had been ousted and a new regime had taken its place, she'd thought things would change.
The followers of the Dark Lord had been rounded up, put on trial and sentenced, as they should, and the country had rejoiced, putting the past behind them and beginning a new era with the promise of peace and harmony for all.
Unfortunately, the Wizengamot had taken this new spirit of charitable goodwill too far. They had become weak. As the years went by, the inmates of Azakan had appealed, and they had been shown leniency. Instead of being left to rot, they struck deals and were given early release and referrals to other, less severe prisons. Some of them were even allowed to see their families.
It wasn't right. It wasn't just. Why should they be able to see the people they loved, when they'd taken everything from her?
Skip forward thirteen years and the only people left in Azkaban were the worst of the worst: those who had murdered, tortured and destroyed without conscience or regret, and who knew how long it would be until they were released?
She wasn't going to let that happen.
She had a plan.
She checked her watch again – one minute left.
Tonight, she was going to make history, and if Robert Avery was too far gone to appreciate her victory, what did it matter really? Soon he would be dead, and she would be with her sister at last.
It was ironic really, that the man who had killed her sister had given her the idea for his own demise. She'd thought that her chance to exact revenge on him would end when he was sent to Azkaban, but as it happened, fate had worked in her favour. In trying to reach him, she had met his friend, and in Katherine, she had found the answer to her prayers.
Reading her case history had been an education. The woman had a talent for destruction - whether it was people, relationships or buildings, she always found the chink in the armour, the one weak point that she could exploit. Her imprisonment in Azkaban had been no exception, and in the Ministry's frantic rush to figure out how she'd escaped, no one had asked the more pressing question of how it had happened at all.
How was it that Azkaban – supposedly the most indomitable, impregnable and invulnerable prison in the world, a true testament to old magics and the might of the Ministry – had failed to stop first Sirius Black and then Katherine Riddle escaping, closely followed by a large number of Death Eaters.
The truth, Muriel had realized, was that for all its walls and wards, Azkaban's strength ultimately relied on its guards - they were the weak link in the chain. The Dementors' shortcomings had allowed both Sirius and Katherine to slip past them and their true nature had made them easy prey for the Dark Lord when the time came, bribed away with promises of a bigger and better hunting ground to explore.
The Ministry had attempted to rectify this oversight at end of the war, banishing the creatures from the prison and replacing them with human counterparts. However, while a commendable step in the right direction, the problem remained the same. Humans were just as, if not more, susceptible to manipulation and the right person, given enough time and a gift for words, could take advantage of that.
She had to admit that the fresh memory of the war and the desperation of the Ministry for people willing to spend extended periods of time in the middle of the North Sea had made things easier. Guards were always needed and a few select recommendations from a hard working employee such as herself had had the added bonus of saving the Ministry recruiters some expensive advertising campaigns and getting her some likeminded new collagues.
Over the years, the number of people sympathetic to her way of thinking had grown, exacerbated by the Ministry's apparently infinite capacity to forgive those who had tried to tear the wizarding community apart, and after that it was just a matter of directing their discontent into a course of action.
She had told them that Azkaban had been home to the scum of humanity for too long, that it was time to cleanse it and, in time, they had agreed. Something had to be done, and they were the ones to do it. If Azkaban's strength truly lay in its guards, the guards must be the ones to bring it down.
She paused for a moment in her musings, aware of someone watching her, and looked up into the light brown eyes of Robert Avery. There were dark circles under his eyes, but the clouded look was gone, and for the first time that night saw a glimpse of the man she remembered.
"You're dead," he said, voice low. "Dead people don't age. I wouldn't imagine you older."
Imagine? The knut dropped, and a slow smile spread across Muriel's face. Now she understood.
"She never told you what happened that night, did she? Your friend. The great and terrible Katherine Riddle." She stepped closer, eyes locked with his. "I got away."
Robert said nothing, just stood there, staring at her in silence.
"I bet you thought you'd escaped too?" she continued, giving him a feigned look of sympathy. "But I found you in the end, and this time it's not a nightmare, Mr Avery. It's real. You're going to burn."
"No."
Muriel frowned; maybe he hadn't come back to reality after all.
"No?"
"She promised," said Robert, dirty blond hair falling across his face as he gripped the bars with almost skeletal hands.
"That I was dead?"
It was sad really, Muriel thought as she watched him, the beliefs people clung onto. If only he knew what had become of his mighty protector. Thirteen years in the bowels of Azkaban, watched twenty four hours a day by an ever changing shift of guards, and she was just a hollow shell of what she had been.
Muriel hadn't seen her herself, of course – she'd been very careful to stay away from both Katherine and Robert up until now. Although she knew there was very little risk that they could do anything to harm her plans, even if they could somehow find someone to listen to them, she didn't like taking chances.
Besides, she remembered those blue eyes. You didn't take chances with eyes like that, even if their owner was chained up in a cell protected by wards that would rival Gringotts'.
"She promised," Robert repeated, his eyes squeezed shut. "No plan B."
Muriel narrowed her eyes, fighting a sudden surge of unease. Plan B? What was he talking about?
"'No plan B'," he muttered again, slamming a fist into the iron door of his cell. The metallic clang it sent reverberating down the corridor almost drowned out the faint chiming beginning from the watch in Muriel's pocket.
One. Two. Three.
Her misgivings vanished with the sound and she smiled and pulled it out, flipping it open as the chimes continued.
Midnight. It was nearly time.
"'Nothing I can do this time.'"
She looked up as Robert spoke again, and met a look so cold with fury that she instinctively took a step back.
"'I expected to be dead.'"
It seemed to her that the words had a slight mocking tone, as though he was quoting someone.
Muriel shook her head, willing her suddenly trembling hands to be still. This was her night. She'd planned this and every chime brought it closer. This was her victory. On the stroke of midnight her people would act, and there would be nothing that anyone could do to stop it.
Not the Ministry. Not Robert Avery. Not even Katherine Riddle.
Six.
It was her night.
Seven.
So why did it feel as if the rug was being pulled from underneath her feet?
Eight.
Robert's gaze was still locked on her, but once again those light eyes looked as though they weren't quite seeing her, as though they were looking through her.
Ten.
Or, she thought with a shiver, behind her.
Eleven.
"You promised," said Robert quietly.
Twelve.
She never felt the breath on the back of her neck as the final chime died away.
There wasn't time.
There was only the organic sound of muscle and bone twisting in ways they were never supposed to, and then the world went black for Muriel Shaft.
In a dark cell in the East Wing of Azkaban, Robert Avery glared at the figure in the shadows.
Her dark hair was almost down to her elbows and hung in matted strands around a face so pale he could just make out the thin blue veins beneath.
"You promised me," he said again. "You swore you didn't have a plan."
Cracked lips curled into a half smile, and when the figure spoke, it was in a hushed, rasping voice.
"I lied."
xxx
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