o─-o─-o─-─-─-─ WITHOUT THORN THE ROSE ─-─-─-─o-─o-─o
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling.
Notes: Thanks so much for all the reviews, favs, and follows. After this one, there are only two more chapters (the climax and the denouement). Couple of new mythology pins for this chapter. Also, regarding last chapter, I just want to say that simply because I let Sirius have the last word doesn't necessarily mean I agree with him. The themes of that argument are definitely one of the major themes of my planned series, so we will see much more along those lines later. Oh, and if anyone knows why FFN keeps eating my spaces...I'd really like to know. Enjoy!
o─-─-─-─-─ 14. SIGHT UNSEEN ─-─-─-─-─o
Rabastan Lestrange was missing.
Harry stared into the empty stone cell for a long, puzzled moment, before descending down the stairs again and checking the charnel caves. There were no new bodies. He returned home and searched through the week's supply of the Daily Prophet, but there was no mention of the man. He hunted down Bjorn in the mess hall, but the one-eyed north-man had heard nothing. Harry returned to the twisted stair, and climbed slowly, trying to pick out Rab's unique pattern amongst the myriad of souls, but there were too many, packed too tightly together, and he couldn't identify anyone if the distance was too great.
James was no more helpful than Bjorn. Harry tried to prepare a nice meal that evening, so that James would feel agreeable, but the dark-haired boy was distracted and fretful, and he wound up with charred meat and underdone vegetables.
"Anything interesting happen at the prison lately?" Harry feigned mild interest as he forcefully mashed butter into his jacket potato.
James grunted around a mouthful of blackened chicken and shook his head. No matter how hearty the meals Harry prepared for him, the once-muscular man remained gaunt and pale, just like the other guards.
"I heard Sirius Black died," Harry added. James gave Harry with a dark look, but did not hurl any cutlery as he once had at the mention of their infamous cousin. "Do you lose many prisoners?"
"Some," James muttered, between mouthfuls of food.
"Anyone I would have heard of?" Harry tried, a touch of impatience creeping into his tone.
James shrugged mulishly.
"Are the Lestranges still alive?" Harry asked bluntly. "Rabastan and Rodolphus?"
James' stare was incredulous. "Gods, you are a morbid little fiend."
Harry forced his mouth into a smile, as if James had given him a compliment, but the remark stung him. "I'd like to do a blood test and see if Mum was really Rogerick Lestrange's daughter. If she was, I could petition the Ministry for the Lestrange inheritance."
James sighed impatiently. "Rodolphus at least is alive. You can ask the Warden yourself."
Harry sat up. "Rabastan's dead, then? How did it happen?"
James scowled. "What do you care?"
"He was my uncle," Harry answered tightly.
"He was a murderous bastard who should have been strung up from the nearest lamppost."
That was probably true, at least the first part, but Harry couldn't help but feel that he had abandoned the man to a sad and lonely death.
"He was my uncle," he repeated more quietly.
James raked his hand through his boyish curls. "Dead, in the infirmary, or in a different cell block. I don't know and I don't care."
There was a long silence as they both picked at the unappetizing meal. James looked as though he were mulling something over. Then he startled Harry with a question. It was rarely a good sign for Harry when the man got to thinking.
"Have you been reading the Prophet lately?" James asked.
Harry glanced up. "Some. Why?"
"Did you read about the murders in Knockturn Alley, week before last?"
Harry's stomach fluttered, and he wished he could gulp down the calming potion in his pocket without his father noticing. "Yeah. What about them?"
James was quiet for a time as he considered his son coolly. The hair on the back of Harry's neck prickled, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a touch of fear of this man.
"One of my old co-workers came up here to question me about it," James continued finally. "Purely a matter of routine, of course. At first, they couldn't find any witnesses who had seen any of the criminals' faces, but they did manage to find one, eventually. An elderly witch. She said that after that after the fight, one of them came running out of an alleyway like the hounds of hell were after him. She caught his arm and lost her familiar for the trouble, but she managed to see his face."
Harry couldn't stop the blood draining from his face, as he remembered the old crone's beetle, smashed and oozing ichor. James was watching Harry like a hawk about to swoop, but Harry could not bring himself to look back.
"She said it was you."
Harry couldn't speak. He sat stock still on the sofa, cold sweat dripping down his back. James let the moment tick on and on until Harry wanted to shout his confession—anything just to break the tension.
"Of course, everyone thinks she's mad as a loon." James paused. "Do you want to know what I think?"
Harry's heart stuttered. He clenched his cutlery tightly to keep it from rattling against his plate.
"I'll take that as a no," James said, after a long, frozen silence. His voice dripped with poisonous contempt. With that, the man pushed his plate away, and took his leave of the room.
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It had never been an easy gap to bridge, but the rift between Harry and James was an insurmountable gulf from that day forth. Perhaps James had suspected Harry before confronting him, but suspicion and certainty were two different things. He never accused Harry outright, but he didn't have to. His certainty was as clear as his disgust. The elder Potter avoided eye contact, took his meals in the mess hall, and slept elsewhere as often as not.
Sometimes Harry wanted to scream at his father, 'It wasn't my fault! They killed me first!' But he never did. Sometimes he wanted to smash furniture again, like he had done at Remus'. Sometimes he wanted to beg for his father's forgiveness. Sometimes he wanted to remind the man that he wasn't the only Potter who got into lethal public brawls. Instead, he went down to the sea, and practiced his magic until his head throbbed and he couldn't produce so much as a spark. He slept on the sand, when he was too weary to climb back up the cliffs, and was wakened by the tide.
He avoided Bjorn. He avoided everyone. His teachers sent worried letters by owl, warning him that he would fail their classes if he continued to ignore his assignments, but he burned the letters and didn't reply. If they wrote to James, Harry never heard about it. At night, he often woke in a sweaty panic from nightmares in which accusing eyes watched while Death Eaters chased him, but now he silenced the room before sleeping. Silencing the sound of his nightmares allowed him to maintain the fantasy that his father would have comforted him, as he had once, if only he knew how much Harry needed him.
Magic was the only friend he sought. Every resource had been exhausted in the search for Rab. Even Pax and Bello had returned with their messages undelivered. Harry was left with no other option but to penetrate the heart of Azkaban, and for that, he would need formidable magic on his side. Harry's goals narrowed to a solitary focus. He wanted to disappear. It was easy to erase his scent, his smell, and his sound, but invisibility still eluded him.
Harry threw himself into the effort like a storm chaser into a hurricane. At times, even he wasn't sure why he was trying so hard. When his head spun and his nose bled from the effort, his conviction wavered. Perhaps he wanted to redeem himself by saving someone. Perhaps he just wanted to hide. When he thought on the matter too much, he felt an abyss of despair begin to open deep inside, and so he did his best not to think at all. It was surprisingly easy once he put his mind to it.
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Weeks passed, and eventually it was time for Harry to return to the mainland. He escaped gladly, eager to put his father behind him, even if it did mean pausing the search for Rab. Harry received a cold welcome, however, when Remus failed to appear at their usual meeting point at the Shetlands harbour. Bjorn offered his own home for the night, but Harry dismissed the kind offer, adamant that he could easily get himself to Remus' place on his own. Bjorn accepted this easily, and Harry set off, knapsack in hand, for the public floo.
Despite clearly pronouncing the name of Remus' cottage, Harry soon found himself in a fireplace he had never seen before. Not only was it not Remus', it was not of the proper proportions for floo travel. It was a firecall-only model. When Harry tried to kneel down to crawl out, he found to his dismay that he was wedged into the chimney too tightly to escape. If this was a kidnapping attempt, it was succeeding.
"Hello?" a familiar voice called. "Who's there, please?" It was Luna.
Suddenly, Harry understood what had happened. Remus must have stopped floo service to his cottage, and the system had truncated Harry's trip at the nearest available floo, which happened to be the Lovegoods'.
"Er—hi," Harry called uncertainly, and sneezed. "Luna? Mr Lovegood? Sorry to intrude…" Harry wondered whether he could blast his way out and then repair the damage. He wasn't claustrophobic, but he really wanted to wipe his nose.
A head inserted itself into the fireplace and knocked into Harry's kneecap smartly.
"Ouch!" Harry exclaimed. "Watch it."
"It's Harry," Luna exclaimed excitedly to the unfamiliar soul next to hers.
"The draugr?" a deep, masculine voice asked.
Another head poked into the fireplace. Both heads twisted upward to look up at Harry as though he were a new species of butterfly on a pin.
"That's him," Luna replied dreamily. "Should we let him out of his barrow?"
"Up to you, my darling," Mr Lovegood replied gallantly. "He looks a bit crazed to me, with that dripping nose and red eye."
Harry repressed the urge to kick the man.
"Let him out," Luna decided.
Mr Lovegood mumbled an unfamiliar spell, and the bricks squashing Harry's shoulders together relaxed. He fell to his knees and crawled out of the fireplace.
"Oh, you do look a fright," Luna clucked. "Your poor eye."
"It's just a burst blood vessel," Harry explained, wiping his nose hurriedly on his handkerchief. He neglected to add that he had earned the injury from practicing his magic until his head felt ready to explode.
"The nidhogg's been at you again, hasn't he?" Luna asked.
"Er…" Harry said blankly. He looked to Mr Lovegood for help, but the man's stare was even dreamier than his daughter's. Harry wondered if madness was catching. "Sorry to just barge in, but I was trying to visit my uncle, only I think his floo's been cut off."
"Yes, he's sold the place," Luna explained. "Didn't you know?"
"No," Harry answered, irritated that Remus had not remembered him. If he were alone, Harry could have flooed to Grimmauld, or sent his patronus with a message, but the Lovegoods were watching him intently with bright and curious eyes.
Harry tried for an ingratiating smile. "Would it be all right if I borrowed an owl and just wrote him a note? It won't take long, and then I'll be out of your hair."
"I won't have it!" Mr Lovegood declared dramatically.
"No?" Harry asked weakly.
"No! You must stay for dinner. We insist, don't we, Luna?"
"Yes, daddy. I'll run and fry up the gulping plimpies we caught today."
Mr Lovegood saluted smartly to his daughter, who darted down the staircase that spiralled up the inside wall of the circular room.
"Erm, so…" Harry tried, scratching his head and wondering how to get out of the situation. "Did you say gulping plimpy? I've only ever had the normal sort." And they're bad enough, he neglected to add. James had insisted on going fishing with Harry at Remus' pond once, and had made a dog's dinner of their catch.
"Oh," Mr Lovegood answered, his eyes lighting up with the air of a fanatic. "I did a cover story on them when they were discovered…let me see…"
Mr Lovegood began to rummage through a stack of newspapers that was being used as an end table. Looking around, Harry noticed that this was not the only questionable choice in décor. There was also bronze statue of a gnome on the mantle with a ludicrously noble look on its face, and several lighting fixtures whose sconces bore a striking resemblance to hollowed-out turnips.
"Er…lovely place you have…" Harry mentioned, for lack of anything better to say.
"AHA!" Mr Lovegood cried, making Harry jump in surprise. "Right here!" He beamed as he shook a yellowed Quibbler in Harry's face. On the front page was a black and white sketch of a spherical fish with two legs.
"I…see. So…about that owl…" Harry tried.
"In the yard," Mr Lovegood informed him cheerily, and Harry escaped as fast as he could.
Harry found the aerie easily enough despite the waning light, but when he reached the owl, the creature decided that it did not like the looks of him. It hooted angrily and beat its wings in his face when he tried to grasp its leg.
"Bloody bird-brain," Harry muttered. It was as though the whole world were conspiring against him. His mood was too vile to summon his patronus, so instead he focused his rage and hatred. A moment later, Bello burst from his coral-pierced hand.
Harry looked deep into the eyes of his black and red anti-patronus and impressed the message: Remus, it's Harry here. Sorry about the strange messenger. I need you to pick me up at Lovegood Lookout.
Harry sent Bello off, and then returned to the Lookout. He found Mr Lovegood setting the table, while Luna scraped noxious-smelling filets of some sort of fish from a sizzling pan onto the plates.
Harry groaned inwardly, and sat down at the dining table to await his fate.
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Mr Lovegood refused to take no for an answer on the question of seconds, and by the time Harry had forced down his last bite, his face was grey and sweating. He wondered what it was that Luna had actually cooked, and, more importantly, whether he would survive the evening.
"Gulping plimpy is good for the constitution," Luna remarked in her high, musical voice, tilting her head at Harry. "Don't you think so, father?"
Mr Lovegood had just opened his mouth to reply when there came the sound of a door being blasted open, and two bedraggled, frantic-looking men dashed up the stairs. Harry was out of his seat in a moment, poised on the verge of fight or flight, before he realized who they were.
For a moment, everyone just stared at each other wide-eyed. The sandy-haired man was the first to break the silence.
"Damn it," Remus hissed, whacking Sirius in the back of the head, "You were supposed to transform, S—Snuffles." He very narrowly avoided using Sirius' real name.
Luna was peering at the two men with calm curiosity, while Mr Lovegood was squinting and furrowing his eyebrows at Sirius, who looked alarmed.
"Er," Remus began, stepping in front of Sirius as if to hide him from view, "Lovely to see you again, Xenophilius. I don't go 'round bursting into people's houses normally, it's just…erm…we got a rather strange message, you see…" He struggled for words, then turned to Harry with a hint of panic showing in his eyes. "Harry! There you are! We'll just, er, be going, shall we…?"
"AHA!" Xenophilius Lovegood cried, his expression lighting up with recognition. Sirius cowered slightly. Mr Lovegood held his finger aloft in triumph. "It's you!"
"Ah…ahaha," Sirius chuckled in ill-disguised fear, "just a, er, family resemblance, cousin of mine, happens all the time, actually," he babbled, gesticulating with his hands while slowly backing out of the room, "why just last week—"
"Stubby Boardman!" Mr Lovegood proclaimed.
Everyone but Luna gaped at the elder Lovegood in various degrees of disbelief. The blonde girl looked delighted. Sirius looked as if he'd been clubbed over the head.
"Mr Boardman, I'm a huge fan," Mr Lovegood declared, hurrying forward to shake Sirius' hand enthusiastically. He dragged Sirius into the living room. "Well! Well! Imagine that, the leader singer of The Hobgoblins in my very own house. You simply must sign an autograph for me."
Mr Lovegood presented Sirius with a quill and a record album that had a close-up of a turnip wearing a moustache and glasses on the cover and the words Steuben Octavius Boardman: The Underground Years. Sirius signed 'S. O. B.' with a flourish and handed the record back.
"You simply must come back for tea sometime, Mr Boardman," Xenophilius exclaimed as he showed them out.
"Of course," Sirius replied jauntily. "Drop me a note any time!"
They fled into the night.
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"What the hell was that?" Harry demanded, the moment they apparated onto the front stoop of Grimmauld Place.
"Language, Harry," Remus chided.
"What was that?" Sirius cried, throwing his hands up in the air. "What was that message you sent us? 'Strange massager picked me up'? 'Love good so look out'?"
Harry face-palmed himself.
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Comic misadventures aside, the week at Grimmauld was a welcome respite from Harry's woes. Remus apologized for having gotten the hour of Harry's arrival wrong, and they all enjoyed a relaxing week. Sirius and Remus both seemed more settled, and the two conversed easily, although there were certain topics that they veered widely around. It was over all too soon, though, and Harry found himself once again trudging back to the Wizenwatch village, alone but for his not so loyal snake.
"Who pissssed in your breakfassst, hatchling?" she hissed in his ear as Harry sighed morosely once again, disturbing her slumber, wrapped as she was around his shoulders and chest.
"No one," Harry replied, in the serpent's tongue. He didn't normally share his worries with the snake, as she was singularly unsympathetic, but there was no one else with whom he could share them. "It's jussst my father. He thinksss I'm a murderer. And I can't find my uncle, and I don't have anyone to talk to on the island anymore."
"Ssso? Make sssome new friendsss."
Harry stopped walking, startled. That wasn't a bad idea. Maybe some of the other inmates atop the highest tower had witnessed Rab being taken away. Why hadn't he thought of that?
"You're hopelessss," Lady sighed.
"Sshhut up."
"Ssso? Did you murder sssomeone?"
Harry huffed. "I guess. Only in self-defence, though."
Lady lifted her head from his collar and flicked her tongue at his neck, sampling his scent and taste. Harry swatted her away.
"How wasss it?" she asked morbidly. "Your firssst kill? Was it juicy? Was it sssticky?"
"Go back to sssleep, you bloody reptile," Harry snapped, fighting a sudden bout of nausea.
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As March rolled in, and the island was racked with a series of harsh storms, Harry made the rounds of the tower top, extracting Vows from one prisoner after another. A few had seen and heard Rab being escorted away by guards, and the man had looked well enough at the time. This was good news for Harry, but there was also bad news. He would need more than just invisibility to sneak into the heart of the prison.
Mulciber and Rookwood reported that rune circles were distributed strategically throughout the prison, in such a way as to catch all intruders. Trespassers would be incapacitated and transported to a holding cell. Only those with the tattoo of a prisoner or a guard could pass through safely. The tattoos were inked with a special potion that was stored in the Wizenwarden's office—which, naturally, was guarded by another rune circle. That was beside the point, however, since Harry didn't much fancy engraving his skin with permanent proof that he had once impersonated a Ministry official.
A much more reasonable solution was to destroy the rune circles. When Harry questioned the two Death Eaters, however, Mulciber replied:
"Blow us all sky-'igh, an' I'll come back as an inferius, rip your bleedin' guts out, an' strangle you wiv 'em. Much fun we could 'ave then, eh, boy?" He seemed quite pleased at the prospect.
Rookwood took a more scholarly approach, and lectured Harry's ear off about scaffolding, skeletons, and keystones, by which Harry was made to understand that constructing a rune circle as powerful as those at Azkaban was nearly as precarious an enterprise as erecting a castle, and safely demolishing them was even more so. Rookwood eagerly volunteered his own deft hand for the task, but Harry declined—emphatically. As unstable and off-putting as Rab had been, the other prisoners were worse.
As spring approached, one obstacle finally surrendered before Harry's relentless will. He at last began to get the hang of invisibility. By the equinox, Harry was haunting the village of the Wizenwatch like a voyeuristic poltergeist. At first, he only watched through windows, but soon enough he was brazenly following wizenguards into their homes. He stole food from their dinner plates when their backs were turned, laughed at their favourite Omnivision shows over their shoulders, and rifled through their drawers when they weren't at home. Sometimes he slipped a souvenir of his visit into his pocket.
He learned a great deal on these jaunts, though little that he wished to know. The Wizenwatch, Harry soon discovered, was as riddled with rot and corruption as an abscessed wound swollen with pus and about to burst. Debauchery, dissolution, and desperation were rife on the island of Azkaban, and not only amongst the prisoners.
There were less than fifty wizenguards, and at least half of them nursed an addiction to alcohol or potions. The red, gluey potion put you to sleep, Harry learned, but if woken up, you could fly into a violent, destructive rage. The indigo potion with gold flecks in it made you laugh at things that weren't funny, and want to touch, lick, and bite anyone you came across, no matter how unattractive they were. The lavender potion was to be inhaled. Its steamy clouds of vapour would lull you into a happy daydream, but they would also destroy your short-term memory, and explode at the slightest spark.
Those guards who weren't comforting themselves with a substance were using something else. A few guards whose faces bore poorly-healed scars were in the habit of meeting weekly to batter each other bloody with their fists. Another guard cut herself with her wand every morning before work and every evening before bed. Two muggleborn wizards had become fanatical born-again Christians who secretly plotted against their devil-worshipping fellows, while three pure-blooded witches preferred to smear themselves with the blood of animals and then have sex with each other on Freya's altar¹. The warden took his frustrations out on his wife, who was a mass of black and blue under her clothes. Her perfume, which Harry had once found so repulsive, was in fact healing balm that she slathered on liberally.
Unfortunately, the corruption wasn't limited to after-hours endeavours. At least a dozen guards were smuggling letters in and out of the prison, and a handful were smuggling potions. There was a persistent but unconfirmed rumour that you could smuggle a person out if you had the galleons. Two female guards were prostituting themselves during their off-hours—twenty galleons for sex, ten for a blow job. One of the male guards would do either for free. If the gossip was to be trusted, most of the sane prisoners would do anything you liked for an hour with a patronus, and gladly. The insane prisoners didn't need to be bribed, of course, but were somewhat more likely to bite.
Harry could hardly credit the rot that infested the island, not even to the pervasive effects of the dementors. It was as though, stuck on this dot of land in the middle of nowhere, everyone had collectively gone mad. Either that, or there was something in the water. He had thought the Wizenwatch vile before; now, he considered them worse than their prisoners.
None of this put the boy's mind any more at ease regarding the fate of Rabastan. With invisibility conquered, Harry moved forward with his plans. He quickly developed a spell that would make his coral hand-piece grow cold as he moved closer to the object of his search. It was a crude solution, but it sufficed. During practice sessions, Harry noted a definite drop in temperature between one end of the island and the other. Rabastan was indeed in the prison; the only question that remained was whether he was alive or dead.
Given the problem of the rune circles, Harry also began exploring the viability of scaling the outer walls of the fortress while remaining invisible. This would circumvent the circles neatly, but thus far he found it impossible to remain invisible while casting any other spell. He was nearly at his wit's end, on the day when Lady volunteered herself as a scout.
"Are you ssstupid or just not lissstening?" Harry demanded. He was hurling shells at a cliff face to relieve his frustration. He awarded himself a point for every shell he managed to smash, and subtracted one for every shell that bounced back unharmed. It felt good to do something with just his muscles for once. "Unless you can climb walls, it's no use. I don't mind tattooing you," Harry continued, "but it takes a ssspecial ink."
"Ooh, does the ickle sssnake know sssomething the wee human doesn't?" Lady replied, tightening her coil around his neck.
"Ergh," Harry choked out, wrenching her from his neck. He held her face up to his and glared. "Ssspill it, or I'll tossss you in there." He jerked his head, indicating the ocean.
"Hideousss wretch," she hissed in the proud tone of a mother watching her son at a recital. Harry raised his arm as if winding up for a pitch. "All right, all right!" Harry lowered his arm. "The rune circlesss probably don't keep animalsss out."
"You waited until now to tell me thisss?" Harry hissed incredulously. He'd been complaining about the rune circle problem for a fortnight.
"I wasssn't sure I wanted to do it," Lady replied haughtily. "You can barely make yourssself invisible—who knowsss what you'd do to me. And if you think I'm sssneaking in there unprotected, you can think again. The guardsss would ssskin me alive just for a laugh."
"Are you sssure you can get through the circlesss?" Harry questioned intently.
"No," she answered, slithering back up his arm and taking her usual place hanging about his neck. "But I've sssneaked through other rune circles as a sssnake."
"Right," Harry muttered, resisting the urge to wring his familiar's neck, "that needed sssaying, because, of course, there's some other way for you to sssneak through than as a sssnake."
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¹ In Norse mythology, Freya was a major goddess associated with love, sexuality, beauty, fertility, gold, sorcery, war, and death. She claimed the souls of half of those who died valiantly in battle for her realm, Fólkvangr (the other half went to Odin in Valhalla).
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"How does a rune circle detect what kind of creature is passing through it?" Harry inquired as he passed Rookwood a basket of baked chicken and rolls. The squirrelly little man ripped off half a breast with his yellowed teeth before he answered, and Harry made a face, remembering what he had read about the crimes Rookwood had committed against muggle women.
In the next cell, Mulciber began to whinge about the smell of the food. Harry added a scent shield to the sound shield he had already erected around Rookwood and himself.
"Well," Rookwood began, licking the chicken grease lustily off his fingers, "it doesn't. As even the most cursory study of the art of ancient runes could tell you"—Harry rolled his eyes—"runes can only interact with each other and with elements of primal magic."
"Mm…hmm," Harry murmured flatly. Rookwood was definitely the most intelligent and educated of the prisoners Harry had access to, but this had proved to be a double-edged sword, as the man had guessed Harry's identity during their first encounter. They had been at odds ever since.
"Which is to say," Rookwood continued, looking entirely too amused at Harry's obvious ignorance, "that the runic circles don't 'detect' trespassers, per se, but only their magical cores. They detain all creatures who pass through, except for those who have an attached tattoo. The purpose of the special ink in the tattoos is to anchor the runes to the magical core. As for the core itself, since a magical core is a primal magical substance, much like elemental fire or water, the runic circles and the runes of the tattoos can interact with it."
Harry frowned. "So someone without a magical core could go through just fine? A muggle, for example?"
Rookwood snorted and rearranged himself. It was clear he was thriving on a bit of intellectual stimulation. If only Rab had been so easy to cheer up. Of course, Rookwood had only been in for a few months. "No, no. Every creature, magical or otherwise, has a magical core. The magical core of a wizard is simply larger and more accessible than a muggle's."
"But what about animals? Can't animals go through rune circles sometimes, when humans can't?"
"Ah, well," Rookwood continued contentedly, "each activation of a runic circle brings a magical cost to bear on the wizards whose cores power it—in this case, the wizenguards and prisoners. They are often designed—the ones at Azkaban included—in such a way as to prevent superfluous activation. This is generally achieved by restricting the magical cores that will trigger the circle's activation to lie within a narrow size range, which in this case probably covers only those beings capable of infiltrating the prison."
Harry tapped his lips and let his gaze drift off into space. He knew even less about magical cores than about runes. At least he'd heard of runes. "Hmm…is there some way to—I don't know—temporarily deactivate a magical core, or store it outside of the body?"
Rookwood made a strangled noise that might have been laughter. "Deactivate, maybe. The Draught of Living Death might do it. Remove it? No. That would result in immediate death. That is exactly how the Avada Kedavra kills, in fact—that curse simply expels the magical core."
Harry blinked. He could feel a light dawning inside him. "When you say magical core, do you really mean soul?"
Rookwood's lips wriggled like worms as he suppressed his laughter. "Only an ignoramus with no real understanding at all of the mysteries of magic would term it so. That particular, er, epithet"—he coughed politely—"is best left to ignorant Muggles and shamans."
Harry steepled his fingers and regarded coolly the specimen of humanity before him. "Why use four syllables when one will suffice?"
Rookwood seemed to sense Harry's annoyance, but he did not back down. "I'll have you know that magical cores are one of my areas of particular expertise, young man. When I left my post as an Unspeakable, I was in the midst of researching a spell that would actually extract and isolate a core for further study. The idea was to use potions to make visible—"
"Souls don't simply stay put once they're out of the body, though," Harry interjected, and he could not keep a note of keen curiosity from entering his voice. "How exactly were you planning to keep hold of it?"
Rookwood cocked his head and gave Harry a curious look. "Well, you seem to know something about the matter. What would you suggest?"
Harry watched Rookwood warily for a moment. "I would suggest that extracting a soul is a rather creative epithet for murder."
A twisted grin spread unpleasantly over Rookwood's face. "Some of my co-workers agreed, as it happens. And here I am!" He spread his arms in mock triumph.
"Thank you," Harry told the man as he rose and brushed his clothes off. "I have what I need."
"Wait!" Rookwood called, scrambling up to the bars and pressing his face against them as Harry rounded the corner. "I'll tell you! I was going to use a dementor to store the magical core! Someone I once knew taught me to communicate with them. I can't hear them, but I can speak to them!"
Harry froze in mid-step in front of Mulciber's cell. Said man was currently wanking and gave Harry's bum an appreciative leer.
"Who?" Harry called as he sneered at Mulciber's pale, worm-like appendage. Mulciber flicked his tongue invitingly in the boy's direction.
"You've met him," Rookwood answered with a hungry note in his voice, "or so we lesser mortals are given to understand. Tell me, do you remember the moment when your so-called soul left your body? Because I would be truly fascinated to hear all about it."
Harry took his leave with as much dignity as he could muster. As he descended the winding stair, he did his best not to linger on this disturbing similarity between himself and his mother's murderer.
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Harry passed through the first rune circle with excruciating slowness. He had always been the sort to rip a plaster off quickly to get it over with, but he was terrified of waking up in a Ministry holding cell to the sight of his father's disappointed and disgusted face. He literally could not imagine a worse fate, short of bunking with Mulciber, or death, which might be preferable.
When he was past the circle, Harry took a few seconds to breathe deeply his relief. It seemed that his mutilated soul was small enough to be considered unworthy of guarding against. That was disturbing in and of itself. It was also a bit galling to realize he had wasted weeks of research on a non-existent problem. Yet he had learned something so interesting in the process —magical bloody cores, my arse—that he wasn't terribly upset. Once he had located his wayward uncle, he planned to spend the next few months poring over everything he could find on the topic.
Strolling the gloomy corridors of Azkaban was, Harry reflected, perhaps slightly more dangerous than picking the Warden's pocket, but he had grown accustomed to passing undetected beneath the noses of the guards, and it did not feel much different to do so in the prison than in the village. The prisoners were the main difference, and Harry had already met the worst of them.
For one did not score a cell atop the highest tower of Azkaban by chance—no, those cells were reserved for the ones who had truly distinguished themselves, as were the cells closest to the guards' stations, where the air was the warmest and the food the hottest. Harry had to look away as he passed an open cell where two guards were simultaneously enjoying the attentions of a female prisoner. A shining silver tarantula patronus, perched atop her arching back, sat up and wriggled its forelegs in Harry's direction as he passed. It seemed he was not so invisible as he had supposed.
The patronuses were not the only ones who could see Harry, however—the dementors could, as well.
"Ha-a-alf-so-o-oul," one of them croaked as it sailed past him with a fluttering of its black cloak and a slight dip of its head. Harry glared at it suspiciously and walked a little faster.
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Mordred, Harry concluded as he finally reached the ground floor of Azkaban, had been a madman, if his fortress this truly was. Only a lunatic could have designed the zigzagging labyrinth of corridors. Or perhaps the intention was to delay invaders while the castle's occupants withdrew to ever higher levels, before finally escaping down the twisted stair into the grotto beneath the waves. The layout had certainly delayed Harry: it had taken him two hours to descend only ten stories.
On the ground floor at last, Harry found the main entrance to the prison, where stood two colossal doors large enough to admit giants without stooping. The giants' doors were barred, however; guards entered and exited the prison through a smaller side door. The ceiling and edges of the titanic entryway were lost in shadows, but the guards seemed to chiefly orbit about a small, brightly lit room whence issued the sounds of laughter and gossip.
Harry approached the bright room warily, on the lookout for dementors and patronuses that might give his position away, or even attack him. A silvery fox glanced at him curiously, but dismissed him, so Harry slipped inside. This was the canteen, he realized, as he indifferently surveyed the tables of guards sipping tea, smoking, eating their lunches, and playing cards. Harry was just on the point of leaving again, when a particularly hearty gust of laughter caught his ear.
"That's what she said," James guffawed, and clapped his neighbour, a beefy, red-faced man, on the shoulder. Harry's mouth fell open a bit. It had been months since he'd heard his father laugh.
James flicked his cigarette into an ash bin and sauntered toward the door. As he passed a petite female guard with sandy-blonde hair, she shot him a sideways glance, and he looked her up and down before smiling slyly and raising his eyebrows questioningly and shooting a significant glance at the door.
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In the dank gloom of an abandoned cell in a subterranean corridor, a flirtatious laugh drew Harry like an unwilling thrall to the scene. In silhouettes of black on grey, it unfolded. Two shadowy forms wrestled against the stone wall, then fell to the bench. She reached for his mouth with hers, but he evaded her, and she dipped her head and teased him by pulling down his zipper with her teeth and a throaty chuckle.
The sounds of slick flesh sliding over flesh issued from beneath a curtain of hair. Her pinkie finger stuck out comically as she used her hand to assist. The scuff of a boot on stone indicated a leg being drawn up, and a drawn-out groan expressed approval.
She lifted her mouth off him with a little sucking pop and murmured, "Like that, baby?" in a coquettish voice.
"A lot better with your lips around it," he answered callously. She resumed her task with a huff of annoyance.
There was a hiss of air as a cigarette was lit, and in the flare of James' wand, Harry briefly saw his father's face. His eyes were shadowy hollows. Harry wondered if his father spent his nights away from home in this woman's arms.
A grunt was all that marked the climax of the event: the sort of noise a man makes when shifting heavy furniture without a wand.
"Thanks," James muttered as he zipped his trousers up and propelled her from the cell with a hand on the small of her back. Harry, who was still in the hallway outside the cell, stepped back. "See you tomorrow."
"What about what you promised?" she asked indignantly.
"If you wanted me at your little soirée, you should've made me go before you sucked my dick. Now shove off, I need a kip."
"Fucking bastard!" she cried, as she shot a hex at him. James deflected her wrath with a quick shield and slammed the iron door in her face, and, unknowingly, in Harry's.
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After notes: I'm particularly curious to hear thoughts on the scene at the Lovegoods, since I don't have a lot of confidence in my ability to write humor. Thanks.