KIND OF IMPORTANT; READ THIS, YOUS GUYS: Hey there, those of you who have yet to delete Ectomancer from your alerts! Thanks so much for your faith (or laziness, hehe)—basically, I let the story languish for a while, and then rewrote large parts of it. So this is me letting you know that all thirteen of the old chapters have been replaced, and you wouldn't be wasting your time to reread. And hey! Here's a new one, too! Anyone interested in getting early updates, or just keeping tabs on progress (or even a ridiculous number of talented authors and stimulatin conversation) should head on over to the forums at Dark Lord Potter dot net, and more specifically the Work by Author section. Anyway, hope you enjoy.

CHAPTER 14

Harry awoke with an idea.

It was a singularly unpleasant one, and the thought of executing it filled him with dread, and for a long time he lay there in the dim predawn, mind scrambling over what he had learned over the past few weeks.

The connections between this side and the other side were only a precious few, and he had exhausted several avenues already. So, while this last idea left him with a deep pit of anxiety, he was beginning to think it might be his only option. There was one element that connected this world to the other side that he was absolutely sure of.

Dementors.

And all of his reading agreed on one point: the secret of their origins was buried with them where they dwelt. Which meant going to Azkaban.

It was an idea he wanted to dismiss out of hand, but his brain would not stop turning it over.

It wasn't even quite light out when he swung his legs out of bed, startling Hedwig, who had been loyally keeping watch over him from his bedpost.

"Sorry, bird," he said, smoothing down her ruffled feathers. "Too many things to do, and no time to do them."

Before he could swing into motion, he noticed the envelope—the one from Sirius—poking out of the pocket of yesterday's stained trousers.

Suddenly terrified that the contents might have been obscured by ink, he took it out quickly. To his relief, only a corner was stained, and he sighed. Carefully, he unfolded it and spread it flat on the bed. He wondered what Sirius had been thinking, when he put the little package together. Had he been smiling as he worked? Had he been sad? Resigned?

He looked at the way Sirius had written his name, the lines quick and easy. Happy, then. Maybe there was a joke in the little envelope, somewhere.

Harry sighed, took up the precious package, and worked open the seal. Inside were two items. One was an ornate key that might have been silver, but had oxidized to a dull black, with an elaborate 'M' stamped upon a five-rayed star, twined with leaves and fruits. The other was a square of thick parchment that fairly bristled with little glowing runes and equations in all colors—but to normal eyes it appeared to be a very simple line drawing of a man with longish hair and a little goatee. There was an empty speech bubble next to its face.

Harry studied these two baffling objects, unsure what to make of them. Clearly they would require more than a cursory examination. Unfortunately, he had more pressing concerns at the moment, and put them away with reluctance.

He dressed quickly, praying that Hagrid wasn't awake yet, or that perhaps some beast required the big man's attention on the other side of the grounds. He wasn't sure there was a good way to explain himself if Hagrid found him talking to an oversized puddle.

It was as he was striding across the dewy grass toward Hagrid's hut in the half-light, thinking that 'puddle' really wasn't a fair assessment and would probably hurt Mud's feelings, that he realized how strange his life had become.

"Bloody wet shoes," he muttered. He could just make out the dim shape of Hagrid's hut against the darker mass of the Forbidden Forest. Hedwig twittered half-heartedly from his shoulder, and he patted her sleek feathers. "You're clearly not getting enough sleep, pretty bird," he chided.

She didn't dignify his comment with a response, but only turned her head to give him a flat stare.

Harry grimaced. "Touché."

As his footsteps sluiced through the dewy grass, he grew ever more aware of the nearby presence of the Black Lake. He felt it like a baleful stare itching between his shoulder blades, massive and dark, just out of sight but heavy with frightful possibility. What number of creatures could come crawling up out of the lake? What massive beast could fit through a gateway like that?

His imagination helpfully conjured up a hulking leviathan that would loom so tall that it disappeared into the low hanging clouds, and so vast that it would clutch at the slopes around the lake to pull its twisted mass from the depths….

Harry shuddered and walked faster, Hedwig's talons tightening on his shoulder to keep her balance.

A breeze picked up; with it came the sounds of wavelets hitting the shore, and oh how easy it was to imagine it was something coming up out of the water.

By the time he reached Hagrid's hut, he was ready to sprint at the drop of a hat, and he probably could have kept going for at least five kilometers. A dim glow of candlelight came from Hagrid's windows, but the lantern by the door was gone, and the smoke coming from the chimney was the thin wisp of a dying fire.

There was Hagrid's pumpkin patch, and it was indeed under water. Harry smiled despite himself, wondering what Mud had been thinking when she picked the spot. Lonely for human company, maybe?

He crouched by the soggy edge, and Hedwig leapt from his shoulder to alight on Hagrid's roof. Poking a finger in, he called softly, "Little Muddy!"

Ripples formed out in the middle of the water. At first he thought it was just from the wind, but then they turned into splashes coming toward him, as if something invisible was bounding across the surface. "Hi Harry!" responded a breathless, childlike voice. "I did it, Harry!"

"Yes you did!" Harry said, filled with delight. "And did you have a fun trip?"

"Yes!" the little spirit enthused, finally poking her head out just slightly. The water took on a slight glow where it touched her, and after just a few seconds, the top of her head began to turn transparent. "I met lots 'n lots n' lots—" she broke off to dunk back under the surface, and came up fully opaque again, "and lllots of creeks. And there was a river, and she was soooo fast, and there was another one who was kind of mean, but he said—he said that someday maybe I could be a creek, and then sooomeday maybe I could be a river too—"

"Wow," Harry said, "that sounds like an amazing adventure!" He noticed that Mud was slightly more articulate than before. Maybe she'd picked up more water? He'd have to ask Karakash how it all worked. "Hey Mud?"

She ducked back under, and up again with a small 'plip!' "What?"

"Would you mind too terribly if we moved you somewhere else? My friend Hagrid is trying to grow some pumpkins here, and they don't grow very well when they're under water."

"Oh!" she breathed, looking around dramatically. "I did'n know what they were. Okaaay, I guess."

"Okay," Harry affirmed. "You wait here for a little bit, while I go find a good spot, all right?"

"Mmhm." She nodded.

Harry patted the top of her smooth little head, and then set off. He skirted the lakeshore for a little while, carrying a wan ball of light in his hand. He found a likely spot that was still in sight of Hagrid's hut, near the trees but not so high above the lake that Mud's water would leach away into the ground.

After a moment of mental preparation, he began summoning and banishing great chunks of earth, carving out a bed for the little pond spirit. Hedwig swooped back and forth overhead, making a game of catching his hair on her way by. Soon the sky was turning pink, and long bars of light reached out over the peaks above the lake, heralding the sunrise.

When Harry began to hit rock, he figured it was deep enough, and decided to line the banks with sand and stone so that Mud would have an easier time retaining her water. Finally satisfied, he flopped to the grass and wiped his forehead. "Hey Mud!"

He saw her leap out of the pumpkin patch in a bright arc, catching the morning sun. She bounded over the grass toward him, almost fully translucent, pulling her water along with her like a ribbon of glass.

"Pretty!" she shouted as she flew by him. Her wake spattered Harry with droplets, and she leapt into the basin like the unbroken stream from a garden hose.

Harry ducked and covered his head, but was drenched anyway. Despite himself, he ended up laughing—Mud was so excited she turned her basin into a whirlpool, crashing against the boulders at the edge and sending up spray.

"Argh," Harry laughed, rolling away from the edge. "Silly creature—"

"Harry?"

He nearly choked on his own spit—it was Hagrid, coming out of the trees. Harry's heart was galloping—had the big man seen anything? He tried to put on an innocent face, while Mud slowly calmed to a gentle swirl. "Hello Hagrid!"

"Wha's all this, then?" Hagrid gestured with a pair of pruning shears that were the size of a shovel.

"Oh—just practicing," Harry said quickly, wiggling his fingers. "Went ahead and moved that water for you—seemed kind of urgent."

"Well that was right kind of yeh," Hagrid said, looking bemused. "Coulda waited fer the sunrise, but…"

"No problem," Harry assured with a smile—which became rather fixed when he noticed Hedwig stubbornly trying to take a drink from Mud's pool, while Mud kept squirting little jets at the bird. "I just hope your pumpkins survive."

"Ah, they'll be fine," Hagrid said. " I'm abou' ter feed the Acromantulas—would yeh care ter join me?"

"Er, that sounds like fun, Hagrid, but… " Harry scrambled for an excuse. "I was about to go up to the kitchens for some breakfast."

"Ah, yeh'll be missin out! But yeh do need ter eat more, and make no mistake," Hagrid chuckled. He ruffled Harry's hair, before stumping off toward his cottage. "Yeh know where ter find me if yeh change yer mind!"

Harry waited until the big man was safely out of earshot. "Mud?"

She poked her head up, an inch from his knee, and rested her little paws on the rocks. "What?"

"How do you like it?"

Her gecko eyes sparkled. "Wicked! So clean—no more dead leaves or gunk or old shoes! Can you get me some fish? I aalways wanted some fish. And a snail!"

Harry grinned at her. "I'll see what I can do. Hey Mud, I have a question."

"Okay!"

"I'm trying to call a river—kind of like how I called you. But he doesn't answer. Do you know why? What am I doing wrong?"

"Oh…" She frowned, looking down. "I asked th' nice river for you. She said… She saaaid… Oh! She told me you have to be touching the right water. If you have some of th' right water, you can call them. That's what she said."

Harry smacked himself in the forehead. "Of course. I'm an idiot." The water that came from Karakash's horn—it must have its genesis in the river itself.

"No way, you're ba-rrilliant!" Mud cheered, before leaping away to whip her pool up into a frenzy. Hedwig squawked from her place by the bank, flapping into the air.

"Not the word I would use," Harry muttered to himself. An idea niggled in the back of his mind. "Hey Mud, one more question."

"What?"

"Is there anything you can do to keep the dementors—and all the rest of them—from coming over to this side?"

"Sort of," she said reluctantly. "An' only when they try an' come through me. I'll try harder next time; I just get tired really fast."

"Is that why you froze over?"

She frowned, coming to rest near his knee again. "Iunno, I guess. I feel like I have more energy now. Plus he's over there." She tilted her eyes toward the Black Lake.

Harry followed her gaze, and despite everything he'd already seen, felt a chill. "Right."

Mud lowered her voice to a whisper. "He's sorta scary, though."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. But it did explain why nothing had crawled up out of the lake to find him yet. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet.

"Oh!" Mud cried, when she realized where he was going, and disappeared into her pool.

Harry walked to the very edge of the lake, trainers crunching across the coarse sand and stones. The water lapped quietly at the shore, but he could see the bottom drop sharply into the deep just a meter out. The surface of the lake was choppy in the morning breeze, picking up accents of gold where small whitecaps formed. The ridges in the distance were hazy and indistinct. It was a captivating scene. Not intimidating at all.

Not at all.

Harry crouched, and let his hand touch the surface. He took a steadying breath. "Black Lake?" he called.

The water was dark, and very deep. He knew just how deep, from having swum in it during fourth year. He could see pretty far out, and beneath the sparkling waves that caught the sun, it was a uniform steel gray.

As he was watching, though, a shadow seemed to fall across the water. Darker and darker it grew, as if the lake were filling with ink. Unconsciously, he took a step back. An edge formed, one that nearly reached the shore, growing more distinct in the deep. Black as pitch, the impossibly huge shape lay just below the surface for as far as he could see.

Then, just a little ways out, a disc appeared, fifty meters across and hazy in the water. But Harry could see that it was yellow, slightly domed, with a dark center. And it seemed to be focused on him.

It was an eye.

The whole world rumbled, and Harry lost his footing, too shocked to catch himself. The line of the lake's horizon bowed upward just slightly, as if the creature would surface, but it was so vast that it never broke.

Harry realized it wasn't just rumbling—it was speaking. "Child," it boomed, so low Harry almost couldn't understand the words. "Fear not."

"Easier said than done," Harry stammered, his voice sounding absurd in contrast.

"Mine is to protect," the leviathan thrummed, "not to harm."

"Oh," Harry managed. "That's good."

The eye drew closer, clearer in the water. Waves surged against the shore. "What do you wish of me, Potter-child?"

"Do you—can you protect Hogwarts… from dementors? And all those other things trying to get through? Can you keep them back?"

"Yes, child. They flock to you, but it will take untold numbers to overwhelm me. I am mighty."

Harry sagged with a relief so profound that it left him dizzy. He hadn't realized how much the constant worry and paranoia had weighed on him. And—just maybe—this Azkaban idea wasn't as suicidal as he'd thought. "And what about you? Can you leave the water?"

"If I must," the leviathan rumbled. As if to prove it, the line of the horizon bowed again, before settling out. "But it is very difficult. Should you wish, you may come across the divide, that we might view each other properly."

Harry had the feeling that the Black Lake was a prideful lake. "You're already quite impressive from here," he said, watching that massive eye. He was never going to go swimming again. "Thank you," he added. "For protecting us."

"It is my duty," the lake thrummed, sending little rocks skittering. "But I am glad for it."

"And sorry about the baby squids. I didn't know you had a consciousness at the time."

"Fear not," the lake assured him once again. "I like them."

Harry spent the rest of the day in preparation. He was running out of time before school started; there were only three weeks left, in fact. And Snape was supposed to show up at the castle any day. He needed to make the best of the time he had left, because he didn't think anyone would be pleased with him skipping classes to go globe-trotting for clues about the Other side.

"This is a bad idea, Potter," he muttered to himself. But if there were a way to get in and out of Azkaban safely, he knew there was information there he could use. Even if it was something as simple as how to control the creatures, it would be a huge step in the right direction.

So. Hypothetically, he cautioned himself.

He would need a few things: first, a decent wand. Second (and perhaps even more important) he needed protection beyond a patronus. He wished there were some way to bring the Black Lake along, but that was probably impossible—at any rate, it sounded like a common trait amongst water spirits. If he could just figure out how to call Karakash…. Third, he needed to know exactly where his objective would be. And finally, he needed a way in—and it had to be from this side, since the Other side would probably be suicide.

Sighing to himself, he began to plot in earnest. If he couldn't satisfy those requirements, he would simply find another way to gain information. Although he was down to parlaying with the Goblins (which would nullify the advantage of a water spirit's protection, not to mention he had no way of knowing what their actual disposition would be. At least with dementors, he knew they wanted to suck out his soul), convincing Peeves to spill (which, given that the poltergeist could go through walls, would make it impossible to pin the spirit), or tracking down Voldemort and finding out what the hell he was up to.

Having choices was great.

At any rate, to fulfill his first criteria, he knew he couldn't go buy a wand (used or new) because of his bloody probation, nor could he ask Ollivander for tips. So he did himself a favor and went to look up a bunch of dead, famous wand-makers, and wrote them all down. Then he went walking around the castle to ask the paintings if any of the wand-makers had portraits there.

While his request sped through the castle, Harry went back to the library to bury his face in more books. Specifically, he wanted to find out what that strange wand at the second-hand shop had been made from. Grenadilla, it turned out, was another name for African Blackwood.

African Blackwood, he read, is often mistaken for ebony, due to its uniform black color. In fact, it is a member of the rosewood family, and the black color is actually an extremely deep purple. This wood is strongly aligned with the energy of Saturn, which is known to block other energies, and represents the end of cycles and the energy of the underworld. As such, African Blackwood is an excellent medium for blocking the energy of other magic, and communication with the dead. Blood magic or magic related to death would be highly effective with this wood. It acts as a conduit between the physical and spiritual realms.

"Well that sounds… ominous," Harry muttered to himself.

Then he remembered: Vernon had a pen—one that he prized above all other pens, because it had been a gift from his boss for his tenth year at Grunnings. Harry knew it well; it had always fascinated him with its dark, swirling grain, but of course he'd never been allowed to touch it.

Just as Harry was considering whom he could ask for a favor, Hedwig dropped by with a note from Hagrid:

Harry,

Did you feel that earthquake earlier? I nearly fell off the barn roof!

There was a drawing of a little stick figure with a giant bushy beard, who was indeed tipping backwards off of a roof, while squiggly lines framed it all. The figure's mouth was wide open, and the eyes pointed off in different directions.

Harry chuckled, before composing a request to the Weasley twins for a particular writing utensil. It was with a certain measure of vindictive satisfaction that he sent Hedwig off again.

"What's Potter up to, eh?" Peeves asked, rising up through the table.

"Hey Peeves," Harry said, watching as the poltergeist floated upside down over the scattered books, peering at their contents. "Haven't seen you around in a while."

"Wand woods, oh my," Peeves cackled. "Planning some arts and crafts? Planning on breaking some rules? Ol' Peevesy really should tell somebody about you, Potter; you're a slick one."

Harry leaned forward with a cajoling grin. "Come on Peeves, wouldn't you rather help spread a little chaos?"

Peeves laughed again, flipping around in the air. "Slick, you are! Slick as Slytherins! So what's the angle, Potty?"

Harry considered just asking the poltergeist flat out what he knew about the Other side. It would probably just frighten the spirit off again, but if he could get the poltergeist to open up, it would be worth the try. Harry lowered his voice, drawing the spirit closer. "Okay, Peeves, I'll tell you. But first you have to tell me something."

Peeves' grin split wide. "Something! There! Your turn!"

Harry stifled a sigh. "Tell me what you know about the Other side."

Peeves gave a start, and turned his gaze to the ceiling. "Well, the Other side is the side that isn't this side, ain't it?"

"You know what I mean, Peeves. We've already talked about this."

"Haven't the faintest clue what Pottsy's talkin' about."

Harry scowled at the poltergeist. "I'm serious."

"No you're not; he is!" Peeves pointed over Harry's shoulder.

Without thinking, Harry whipped around.

Of course, there was nothing but the empty library, with its still shelves and chairs and tables. But beneath Peeves' wild cackles and his own flash of fury, there was an itching between his shoulder blades—like there was something watching, unseen.

"So—gullible—" Peeves squeaked out between uproarious laughter. "Shoulda—seen—face—"

Harry threw a banisher that hit Peeves like the fist of a giant, swatting the poltergeist across the room and through the wall, out of sight. The sudden silence left Harry's ears ringing, and he realized he was standing, breathing hard.

He sat down slowly, and scrubbed his hands through his hair. It had been so quick that time. One minute, he'd been fine, and the next…

That little shite had been asking for it, but Harry had to do something about his temper before he really hurt someone.

Just as he had calmed down enough to pull a book toward himself, Peeves came whizzing down through the ceiling. "That was quite a trick, Potter! A sporting gent might say some retaliation is in—"

"If you ever make another crack about Sirius, I'll get rid of you in a permanent way, Peeves. Understand?"

Peeves studied him, wariness tingeing his expression. "Fair enough, Potty. So—what's midgety little Potter up to?"

Harry glowered at him for a moment longer, still tempted to send the spirit flying. "I told you. I need to know more about the Other side. So either you tell me, or I've got to break into Azkaban."

Peeves clapped his hands to his cheeks. "Hah! Always knew you was a nutter!"

"I don't bloody want to go, but the easy resource won't tell me a goddamn thing!

"Told ya, I did; ain't dead, is Peevesy," the poltergeist said. "Don't know nothin' about it!"

"You do, or you wouldn't be afraid of it," Harry said. He narrowed his eyes. "You're a poltergeist—what do you have to be afraid of?"

Peeves, to Harry's deep frustration, finally just ignored the question, flipping around in the air. "So why's Potter tryin' to land himself in the slammer?"

Harry scowled at the spirit, and gave up with a sigh. "The why's not the important part—it's the how I'm worried about."

"What's the hang-up? Pull some shenanigans like usual and get arrested, Pot-head."

"Not practical. I can't be detected."

"Sounds like Potty needs a patsy," Peeves mused, crossing his legs as he floated.

Harry had thought of that—asking Tonks for help seemed like the obvious choice, given her ministry connections and the fact that she had already helped him before. But he knew he was already pushing her limits with this Altair Mengal business. There was no way in hell she would help him break into the wizarding prison. And anyone who might help willingly (Ron came to mind, and Hermione, if she could be convinced of the mission's necessity) would be without the requisite skills to be of any assistance. The thought of asking one of the Order members made him snort. "No," he said. "I can't ask anyone for help, either."

Peeves swooped down through the table and up again, a finger raised. "Make it your business to be at the wizardy prison!"

"Already thought of that," Harry replied, frowning. There were plenty of criminals out there to catch, not to mention Lucius Malfoy skittering around in the ether of the Other side. "But it's not like they'll let me personally deliver people to the prison doors. And what other business do they have in Azkaban? Food deliveries, laundry maybe… but I'm sure that's all checked and double checked."

"True," Peeves muttered. "A suspicious and cowardly lot, they are."

Harry quirked an eyebrow at the misattribution, but only shook his head. "It has to be the guards. Without knowing more about their routines, though…" If only he had access to someone who had done time there. If only Sirius… or even Toliman. Wait…. He snapped his fingers. "Hagrid!"

He left everything where it lay, and practically flew down to the gamekeeper's hut. He was exceedingly grateful to find Hagrid just setting to making lunch, and primed for idle conversation (which Harry planned to direct very carefully).

"Dunno what yeh get up to all day, Harry, but I sure am glad to see yeh keeping yerself busy," Hagrid told him, while poking two massive steaks of unknown origins in a cast iron pan. Harry thought his steak could probably feed about twelve people.

"Nothing very interesting," Harry said. Fang was sitting on his feet, and would tilt his big head back to gaze at Harry dolefully every time Harry stopped patting him. "Mostly reading and wandering around the castle, when I'm not out here with you."

"Must be righ' fascinating reading, then," Hagrid chuckled. "Better be careful, Harry—Hermione's rubbin' off on yeh."

While they ate lunch—turned out it was Aurochs, which explained why the steaks were the size of hubcaps—Hagrid told Harry excitedly about the new brood of Acromantulas that had just hatched, and wanted to know, would Harry like one for himself?

Harry—imagining Ron's reaction to such an acquisition—sadly had to decline.

"Are yeh sure?" Hagrid pressed. "They're righ' swee'hearts when they're so tiny."

"I'm positive," Harry said, trying not to laugh. "Remember when Ron was having problems with Hermione's cat? Forget speaking to me ever again, he'd probably try and murder me."

From there, it was easy to steer the conversation toward others of Hagrid's erstwhile pets—Aragog, of course, who had tried to eat Harry and Ron; Fluffy, the three-headed demon dog who had tried to eat pretty much everyone; Norbert, who nearly burned down Hagrid's house and poisoned Ron; and finally the Wooly Aurochs, who had tried their hardest to trample Harry into a discolored smear.

"Sorry 'bout tha', Harry," Hagrid said sheepishly. "Didn' rightly know wha' they planned ter do with em."

Harry shrugged. "It was hardly the worst thing that happened to me on that ship."

Hagrid cast him a pained glance. "Tha' don' hardly make it any better, lad."

"There were some that had it worse than I did, anyway," Harry said, and frowned at the memory. "The other people they had fighting were actually on loan from Azkaban."

Hagrid shook his bushy head sadly. "Just ain' right, wha' some folks get up to these days."

"They told me they were happy just to get out of Azkaban. One even said he'd rather die fighting than to go back there." Harry watched for Hagrid's reaction, while trying not to seem like he was watching.

The big man shuddered slightly, and gave Fang a more vigorous pat than the dog was probably used to. "Can hardly blame em," he said.

There was his opening. "You were there for a little while, right? What's it like? It can't be bad enough that you'd rather die…"

Hagrid sighed, and fiddled with his teacup. "Well, the firs' thing yeh need ter know abou' Azkaban is tha' there's varyin' degrees o' incarceration, see? There's the holding cells, where I was, on the highes' level. Then as yeh go further down, the severity o' the crime an' their treatment of yeh goes up."

Harry frowned. "The worst offenders are on the ground level?"

Hagrid hesitated. "Not exactly. Yeh'd have ter see it to really get it, I s'pose. At any rate, I don' really know wha' goes on at the very lowes' levels, and frankly I'm happy ter keep it tha' way. They say some prisoners go down, an jus' never come up."

Harry took a moment to digest that. "So, I know there's the dementors, but what else could make it so horrible?"

"Oh, it's not jus' the dementors, Harry," Hagrid said in a hushed tone, hunching further over his tea. Harry felt a pang of guilt for putting his friend through this, but he needed to know. "When they take yeh there, it's all very hush-hush. Yeh don't get ter see anyone, or speak ter anyone; they take yeh to a little room down in the Ministry, and portkey yeh off so yeh don' even know where yeh're goin'. An' suddenly yeh're standing on the top of this ruddy inhospitable pillar o' rock, the wind fit to knock yeh off, and so cold yeh know the hairs in yeh're nose have just froze off. An' the sky—jus' dark, yeh know, like yeh're in some part o' the world that never sees the sun."

Harry grimaced, and made a mental note to dress warmly.

"So they take yeh down into the bowels o' the rock, an there may be a hole poked through to let the 'ligh'' in every once in a while, but the place is dank, an' dark, an' all yeh can hear an' smell an' taste is the cold damn sea. They only took me down a little ways, an' my cell had a cot an' a window an' all—not tha' yeh could see much outside. If I recall, my level had only one or two dementors tha' would patrol tha' whole ring o' the tower. But they came by jus' often enough that yeh couldn' get comfortable, couldn' get ter sleep withou' nightmares. As soon as yeh did, they'd come swooping by outta the dark again.

"Meal times, they would close the dementors off somewhere so the guards could come by and feed us."

Harry jumped at that. "So the guards know spells to control them?"

Hagrid grimaced. "I suppose yeh migh' say tha'. Fer whatever reason, the creatures seem ter listen to em. Heard tell of guards havin' ter 'put some down', but I haven't the faintes' notion o' what that means."

So something strange was going on in the depths of Azkaban, and the guards had ways of controlling—and possibly even destroying—dementors. Shit, Harry thought. I really am going to have to do this.

"Hard ter eat in tha' place," Hagrid said, looking mournfully at his plate. "Yeh jus' knew someone had probably given up and died righ' where yeh sat."

"I can't imagine anyone wanting to work there," Harry said. "How can they stand it?"

"Can' figure," Hagrid said. "S'like workin' on a ship, so I was told. Yeh stay for weeks or months, and then yeh get leave. Has ter pay well, I reckon. The guards have their barracks righ' near the top, an' there's kitchens an' all. Dunno what they do ter keep from goin' crazy. There's almos' no contact wi' the outside, cept for emergencies."

Harry stared into his teacup. "With all of that, I don't understand how Death Eaters keep breaking out."

Hagrid seemed to pull himself out of his funk, with their transition back to the present. "Mos' people don't know abou' it, but word from our Ministry folks in the Order is tha' they're having trouble keeping the dementors under control lately. Can yeh imagine, in a place like tha'… only you and maybe a dozen other wardens, tryin' ter keep everything under control? Blimey, but there are some things tha' just don' bear thinking abou'."

It sounded like a nightmare. Harry's imagination was only too helpful in supplying him with images of panicked guards, running through the dark, cavernous halls, trying to keep dementors from sucking the souls out of helpless prisoners, trying to close them off or chase them down, trying to keep their prisoners from staging an escape, hundreds or thousands of miles from any sort of assistance…

But now he had some idea of what he was dealing with. The task seemed more daunting than ever, sure, but he knew for certain it was the best lead he had.

"I'm just glad you didn't have to stay there long," Harry said earnestly.

"So am I, Harry," the half-giant said, a smile crinkling his eyes. "A place like tha'… it changes a person. Shouldn' exist, in my opinion."

They chatted for a little while longer about other things—fledgling griffons and pinfeathers, and how funny it was when they tried to climb up your leg with their little claws. Harry finished his lukewarm tea, thanked Hagrid for lunch, and trooped back up to the castle.

The idea of breaking into Azkaban, now that it was more than just an abstract concept, left him feeling cold. But this was his best chance to actually learn something. He just had to make sure nothing went wrong.

"Famous last words," he muttered to himself.

The next trick would be finding his guard. If he wanted to remain undetected, he couldn't replace one (and didn't have the necessary skills or supplies to do so, in any case)—he would have to shadow the guard, figure out what the portkey was, and find some way to either duplicate or replicate it.

But who would be likely to know an Azkaban warden personally? It would have to be someone in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Tonks might, but the odds weren't great enough to risk asking her. Warren in the scrolls room would be able to look it up, but Harry wasn't about to go ask him to search for Azkaban guards. If he went to see Warren at all, it would be with a name already in hand.

Well, there was one thing Harry was fairly certain of: a witch or wizard coming off a stint at the wizarding prison would probably be a drinker. So he could try the Leaky Cauldron, the Three Broomsticks, or the Hog's Head, but that would be a crapshoot. Wait, there was one place—

Marty O'Shea—the bartender at the Dragon's Perch! A prison guard would be most comfortable amongst other law officials, and Marty would know them.

All Harry had to do was figure out the workings of a portkey, get a hold of Tonks' fang necklace, get himself to the pub, and he would have this thing in the bag. It would be a good test run.

No problem at all.

Unless he couldn't puzzle out any way to cheat a portkey—then he was pretty much back to square one.

It was a good thing he already had one to practice on. Though it was a pittance, he was grateful for any bit of fortune that came his way. He trotted up to his room to retrieve the goblin sickle, before returning to the library. It was a long night.

"Master Harry," came Pistol's scratchy voice from near his elbow. Harry woke with a start, and had to un-stick a page from the side of his face. As usual, the area behind his left eye was throbbing, and he had to blink several times before the wizened little house elf came into focus. "The Fat Lady is wanting to speak with you."

"Just Harry, Pistol," Harry murmured, yawning. He had fallen asleep in his seat. Morning sunlight streamed through the warped glass windows, heating the fabric of his shirt to an almost uncomfortable degree.

It had been a trying ordeal to figure out the art of portkeys. He'd begun in one place, and had been forced to backtrack through theories and permutations until he understood the principles. Portkeys were a persnickety branch of magic, with untold numbers of possible variations. But once you got down to the bare bones, they had a logical structure.

Which wasn't to say that Harry understood precisely how they managed to warp time and space, but he could figure out when, where, and why it would happen.

Over the basic framework of inscrutable arithmantic equations and the runes that activated them, one could layer their desired parameters. To Harry's eye it was a very detailed diagram of faintly glowing wave lines and symbols, but to the average witch or wizard, it would be as simple as constructing your spell through words and will alone.

The complicated part came in doing everything in the proper order to achieve your desired outcome. For instance, a very simple portkey would activate on touch, and take anyone to the predetermined destination one time. There was very little to screw up, but you could still manage to end up with a portkey that did nothing at all.

A more complex one might be timed, or only activate on a password, or by a specific person. It might work once, or it might be used multiple times, or even only on certain days. There were some that were made more difficult to trace by bouncing a witch or wizard through several locations before reaching the final destination, and only by digging deeply through the layered parameters might one be able to find them all. There seemed to be an infinite number of ways to build a portkey.

The consequences of getting things out of order were almost as numerous, from ending up on the wrong side of the world, to having the portkey activate randomly, to getting you stuck somewhere in between locations (and what became of those unfortunate folk, no one quite knew).

He'd rendered the goblin's sickle portkey inoperable, having dissected the bits of magic and leaving equations and modifiers hanging open. But he knew he could put it back together again, if he decided to.

It was a headache. And Harry was almost positive, after his exhaustive investigation, that the portkeys to Azkaban were likely the most convoluted in existence.

He scrubbed his hair roughly, and addressed Pistol's message about the Fat Lady. "Where is she?"

"She is trying to fit in the fruit painting."

This made sense upon reflection that the library actually had no moving portraits—Madam Pince would not tolerate any excessive noise from them—and the Fat Lady probably hadn't been able to find him. Harry put away his books, tried to straighten himself up, and made his way down to the kitchens. Sure enough, the Fat Lady was just visible over the curve of an orange, ducking low to fit her eyes into the small space between the fruit and the frame.

"Aren't you a bit cramped?" Harry asked her.

"Yes, in fact," she said, sounding put out. "The scale of this painting is quite inconvenient."

"I know there's a landscape just down the hall…"

"No, no, it's fine," she insisted, shifting to look at him with one giant eye. The effect was creepy. "We've managed to locate one of your names, but she refuses to leave her frame." The Fat Lady sniffed at this, as if she couldn't imagine staying stationary.

"Perfect. Where is she?"

"Near the stairs to the Astronomy tower. I do hope you will only need to speak with her once, for your sake."

Harry groaned, almost wishing he'd waited before sending Hedwig off—he might need her to send for supplies, if he had to go all the way up there.

Lancia McLathe was right where the Fat Lady said she would be—sitting primly in a white dress and a white witch's hat, amidst riotously colorful flowers. Harry had noticed that even the very old paintings did not seem to lack for bold colors, unlike their muggle counterparts, and wondered if witches and wizards had used magic to expand their classical pallets. Lancia's hair was pale and whispy, and her chin rather small and pointy. There was a fragile look about her, moon-struck in the same way Ollivander was.

"Hello, Ms. McLathe," Harry said, slightly winded from his climb.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," she replied in a voice that was altogether startling in its crisp depth. "I understand you have some questions about wands?"

"Yes—er, before we start, can I ask how old you are, exactly?" Harry knew that paintings (and ghosts, for that matter) had different ideas about age than the living, and he was rewarded when she puffed up proudly.

"How kind of you to ask, young man. I was born in the twilight of the fourteenth century, and lived to see the dawn of the sixteenth. One hundred and twenty, on my last day—I was beheaded. An exciting time," she added, smiling wistfully.

"I'll bet," Harry said, thinking he was rather glad to have missed it. Violence and corruption and political turmoil—well, put that way, maybe things weren't so different. "The reason I ask—aside from satisfying my curiosity—is that I wasn't sure whether you'd approve. I'm trying to make a blood wand."

"Ah! Useful little things," she said, delighted. Then a knowing look crossed her features. "Oh, but they are not precisely in style anymore, are they?"

"No, not really," Harry said wryly. "I was almost chucked in Azkaban for it, actually." He levered the table-leg wand he'd brought up with him.

"Oh my!" she said, covering a laugh with her hand. "You did do a patch job of it, didn't you?"

"I was under pressure, and with limited resources," Harry said, somewhat crossly.

"No, no, I meant no offense. For a sophomoric effort, I have seen much worse," she assured him, still smiling. "Very well, I shall help you Mr. Potter, because I am sympathetic to you in general, and because you came all the way up here to talk to me, when I so rarely get visitors."

So Harry took a seat cross-legged on the stone floor in front of her portrait, and she began to teach him about making wands.

She told him about selecting the woods, and preparing them—the drying, curing, shaping, and varnishing. She told him the spells to carve and drill, set and seal. She talked about core materials, and which creatures were considered the most coveted and potent.

"A phoenix feather?" she marveled when Harry told her about his lost wand. "My, but that is a shame. What I would have done to be able to work with phoenix feather, boy, would curl your hair."

"It's driving me crazy," Harry admitted.

"Perhaps you can convince your feathery friend to grant you another?" she suggested. "I daresay it would make a good core for your blood wand."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, puzzled. "Isn't my blood supposed to be the core?"

Lancia gave a crisp laugh. "Of course not; you would end up with a very fancy stick that did nothing at all!"

"Hang on," Harry said, frowning. "Aren't wizards technically magical creatures?"

She still had a smile playing about her lips. "Yes, certainly, but not in the same way a dragon or a unicorn is. There is no latent magic in our physical bodies—we are simply able to tap and harness the magic in the world around us."

Harry was feeling rather foolish. He turned the table leg wand in his hands. "So it must have been the troll blood, then?"

"Troll blood?" Lancia scoffed. "Certainly not. Perhaps troll horn, but troll blood would hardly have more effect than that of a human."

Harry gave her a flat look, raised the table leg wand, and transfigured a nearby suit of armor into a banana plant. The wide leaves held a slight metallic sheen, but it was otherwise quite good.

"Either it's the troll blood," he said, "or it's my blood. There isn't anything else in there."

Lancia had her hands on her hips, looking back and forth between Harry and the plant. "Quite irregular," she murmured. "I suppose we could give it a try. You may be able to salvage your wand wood later." She squinted at him. "I have known your family for many years, Mr. Potter. There is no fey ancestor in your line, and certainly nothing within recent memory that could account for this anomaly. I admit that I am quite perplexed."

"I know the feeling," Harry said wryly.

She took a breath, seemed to rethink what she was about to say, and then said, "And your magical performance has been average, among your peers, has it not?"

Harry considered. Average? Yes—he was certainly better at defense than many, but there were others who excelled over him at transfiguration, herbology, potions… "I guess," he shrugged. "Up until this summer, anyway. I've been losing my temper a lot and kind of destroying things on accident."

Lancia gave another quickly stifled laugh. "Oh, how I feel for you, dear. Life will insist on being difficult, won't it? Can you recall anything that may have heralded the change?"

"No," Harry grumbled, frustrated. "All of this just started happening out of the blue. I feel like I've been devoting every waking moment trying to figure it out."

"I am sorry, Mr. Potter," she said with feeling. "Truly, if I could help you further, I would. But alas, it sounds like nothing that I have heard of. I had thought, perhaps… but with this sudden onset—there must be something that has affected you, that you are not aware of."

Harry wracked his brain, trying to think back to the beginning of the summer. Nothing noteworthy came to mind, aside from the obvious. And he was pretty sure Sirius'… death… could not have precipitated all of this.

"Very well," Lancia said, snapping him back to attention. "It shall be an experiment! Do you know where to find the materials that we discussed?"

"Yep." Harry was eager to move on to the practical portion.

"Good. Gather everything you will need. I shall wait for you."

"Thank you for doing this, Ms. McLathe, I really appreciate it," Harry told her.

"It is my pleasure, Mr. Potter. Oh—before you go, do not forget about your strange plant."

Hedwig returned while he was raiding Snape's potions stores.

He knew it was an altogether bad idea, that Snape would notice eventually and likely suspect Harry, but all Harry could think when he thought of Snape was, well… Snape could go fall in a hole and die.

This mental image put him in such good spirits that he realized he was actually humming as he poked through the hundreds of little drawers in the dusty back room.

There were only a few things he needed, anyway, and they were so specific to wand making that Harry doubted Snape would notice them missing for months at least. Getting access had been the easiest part of all; Harry had simply asked the house elves to let him in. He knew they could do it, since Dobby had been able to acquire gillyweed in Harry's fourth year—and none of the elves were particularly fond of Snape.

Although Harry had been obliged to promise to replace the supplies when Snape asked.

As if Snape would ever 'ask.'

He felt a smile stretching his face again, and shook his head. The last ingredient he purloined was a vial of distilled gorgon venom—everything else he would be able to take from his own potions kit.

Hedwig found him in the hall as he was climbing up from the dungeons. She had a note in one claw and a little wrapped package in the other.

"Lo, Hedwig!" he called as she banked around, dropping her payload on his head. He caught them as they fell, and she alighted on his shoulder from behind. "Oof, bird. Look at you, you barely fit anymore!"

Hedwig bit him on the ear. He chuckled at her pique, and opened the note while he walked.

Harry,

We feel the need to express our concerns about what is obviously a deteriorating mental state, and would like to make sure that you are aware that pens are sold just about everywhere.

But far be it from us to question the whims and wiles of the Great Harry Potter, for surely there is a higher purpose in your strange request, and so we did go out and we did acquire this Kingly Pen among pens. If you would care to share (here the letter was obviously taken from the twins by Ron, as his familiar scrawl covered the page:)

Oy, Harry, what's all this about a pen? Are you really that bored up at that stuffy old castle? It's kind of funny, you sending Fred and George off on strange errands, but Mum's in a right snit about how we shouldn't be leaving you alone for so long. And blimey, you should see Hermione— (Ron's last letter was drawn out in a long line, as if the parchment had been snatched right out from under his quill.)

Harry! (this was obviously Hermione's handwriting) I really hope you're staying out of trouble—I mean, I say that, but I've just got this feeling that you're up to something, and if you are, could you please tell us? I just know something funny is going on, with you being so secretive, and I know you haven't been spending all of your time twiddling your thumbs! I mean, if it's a secret that you can't write about, then that's okay, but don't do anything—(here a few things were scratched out)—just be safe, Harry!

-Hermione

AND RON

f & g (pen enclosed, unless your crazy bird drops it)

Harry sighed, and resolved to reply with a properly reassuring letter. He wasn't sure exactly what it would say, since they were all probably well warranted in their concern—he was planning on breaking in to Azkaban, after all.

He ripped off a corner of the parchment, and wrote a quick note to Tonks, asking if she wanted to have tea tomorrow, and let Hedwig take it in her downy talons. "Sorry, girl, but I've got to send you off again. Take this to Tonks?"

The owl very nearly rolled her eyes, before biting him once more on the ear, and taking flight.

Harry continued on up through the castle, collecting the rest of his supplies as he went, until he finally found himself before Lancia McLathe's portrait once again. "Ah, very good," she said, watching critically as Harry laid out his tools. "It will be interesting to see the effect of building one blood wand with another."

"I hadn't even thought of that," Harry said, frowning at his table leg wand. "Sounds like we'll be lucky if any of this works at all."

"Chin up," Lancia admonished cheerfully. "Now set your cauldron on a low flame—yes, just so…"

It was a painstaking process, but with the old wandmaker there to guide his steps, Harry's new wand slowly took shape. While the cleansing potion set up, Harry stripped the pen of its mechanical parts, so that it was reduced to just the rich, black wood. It hummed in his hand, as if well pleased to be there, but it was different from his holly wand.

The holly wand felt buoyant, joyous; almost like a song.

This one was a predator under his hand, with the lazy growl of a sated animal.

While he soaked it in the cleansing solution, Lancia had him mix up the interfacing agent which would coat the inside of the wand. She told him about how normally the wand core would be carefully set at both ends, but since his would be a purely liquid core, they needed only to seal it properly.

She had him practice the spells that would extract his blood (just the right amount) and transfer it cleanly and painlessly into the wand core several times while the wood dried. It was a fascinating thing to see—his blood simply beaded up from his arm, and the little globules flowed into the end of the hollow wand until it was full. Then there was a suspension spell, to keep the core components from deteriorating, before capping each end with a gluey material that glowed slightly, and another spell to seal.

The gorgon venom was part of the final potion, a curing agent that was applied liberally to the outside seven times, until the midnight wood was saturated.

And finally, Lancia encouraged him to give the wand some aesthetic finesse. "Just a good polish, or perhaps some scrollwork on the end…"

Harry considered it closely. It still looked segmented, from its time as a real pen, into two parts. He focused on the bottom half, and carefully transfigured the surface, carving a stag, a dog, a river spirit, and a half-dozen other creatures, all twining around one another.

The other half, he polished to a perfect smoothness.

"It is handsomely done," Lancia said, watching him. She clapped her hands together. "Now to see if it works!"

Harry already knew what spell he wanted to use. He tapped himself on the head, and felt the telltale sensation of cold liquid dripping over him.

"Good heavens!" Lancia gasped. "It works! And your spell—why, I can see no line nor ripple; it is truly flawless!"

Harry removed the charm, tingling from head to foot. He felt as if his grin would split his face, and the sleek little blood wand purred. "Wicked."

The last thing he did that day was to transfigure a shallow bowl in the stone floor of his room, and fill it up with water from the river spirit horn. This was the final detail he needed to iron out before he could set his plans into motion.

Dipping a hand in, he said, "Karakash."

There was a whooshing, sucking sound, like a terrible wind, that built into a great crescendo. Then there was a moment of silence.

The quiet was shattered when the shallow bowl of water exploded in all directions, instantly soaking Harry and dousing every light.

"Argh," Harry shouted. "What the hell, Karakash?"

The river spirit's massive, beautiful head reared out from the basin, ethereal in the dim room. "Fuck! Stupid boy so stupid! Jee-crise, you take so long a' do everything! I bet you take five month to tie shoe! Five year to take shit!"

"You call, I come, what the hell is that?" Harry shouted back. "It's not my fault you had to be as ambiguous as possible!"

"Not ambiguous!" Karakash rumbled. "How much more specific you need? You have Karakash water! You call Karakash name! Very simple! Jee-crise!"

Harry scrubbed his hands down his face. "What is that, your new catch phrase?"

"Stupid boy is jealous he not think of it already!"

"Never mind," Harry sighed. "Karakash, I need your help."

"Karakash so freaking surprised."