Chapter 1

The Night Before

At precisely 9:47 PM on the thirty-first of August, I was lying awake in London with no hope whatsoever of falling asleep, Mr. Harry Potter was about to make his closing statements in an exhaustingly long debate in the Ministry of Magic, and Mr. Benedict Stubbs was being rushed through the corridors of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, strapped down to a stretcher and screaming incoherently. Now, I am not particularly important at this point, as I will in fact fall asleep eventually, and we shall return to the Ministry in time for Mr. Potter's finale, but Mr. Stubbs is of the most consequence at this point. I'm Sebastian Crane by the way, and it's very nice to meet you.

His stretcher (which was crawling with frantically moving equipment doing their best to keep him alive) was accompanied by three healers, with a fourth following behind, impeded by a noticeable limp. Mr. Stubbs, who appeared unnaturally ancient, was drenched in sweat. His bloodshot eyes darted about faster than seemed possible, and an endless stream of unrecognizable words blasted out of his mouth continuously.

"Blood pressure is climbing!" cried one of the healers, a young woman with flowing blond hair. Without breaking his stride, the limping healer pointed his wand at his own throat.

"Sonorus," he muttered. A second later, his magically magnified voice echoed through the hallway. "MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY! WE NEED AN ELEVATOR, STAT!" Healers and visitors alike dove for cover as the stretcher flew past. The attending healers barely managed to steer their patient, still howling like a demon, into an elevator; the blond healer swiftly pushed the button for the fourth floor once they were inside.

The stretcher shot forward again as soon as the doors opened, and the three healers broke into a run to match, with the fourth continuing to limp along behind them. He pointed his wand at the racing stretcher.

"OPERATING ROOM TWO!" he instructed. The stretcher rounded a corner, nearly flipping over as it did so, and began to wheel itself towards the operating room. Gesturing with his wand, one of the healers accompanying the stretcher opened the door, and once all four healers were insider, closed it again with a loud BANG!

"WHAT'S HIS SITUATION?" the limping healer asked.

"Take the bloody charm off!" said one of the healers. The limping healer muttered the counter-charm as quietly as possible under his circumstances. "I've never seen anything like this," the other healer continued. "Look, he's bleeding out of his ears now!"

Mr. Stubbs thrashed wildly, desperately trying to break his bonds. Suddenly, his incoherent babbling coalesced into a single intelligible statement.

"I'm going to kill every last one of you!" he roared, causing the healers (and even some of the instruments) to pause in surprise. These were the last words Mr. Stubbs could choke out, as his speech gave way to a fit of coughing. Flecks of blood flew from his lips. The limping healer began casting charms on Mr. Stubbs' lungs while a levitating cloth wiped the blood from his mouth, but it was to no avail. Eventually, Mr. Stubbs' thrashing became less and less violent, and he soon ceased to move at all. The healers watched in frustration as a thin stream of what appeared to be smoke escaped his mouth as he drew his last shuddering breath. By 10:00 PM, Mr. Stubbs was dead.

The limping healer accompanied the body to the morgue, eager to see what an autopsy would reveal. He'd seen countless curses and examples of spell damage in his career, but he couldn't help but feel that there was something strange about this particular case.

"Let's find out who this bloke was," he muttered. "Kadaver Idente Revellio!" A set of ghostly characters appeared above the cadaver's head: his name, height, weight, date of birth... The limping healer stopped suddenly, and read the date of birth again. And again. "Impossible," he hissed. Leaving the corpse on the table, he rushed to the hospital's extensive record room. Though the room appeared to be a large on anyways, it was actually even larger than it looked. Every wall up to the ceiling was covered with massive filing cabinets containing the records of every witch or wizard who had ever passed through the hospital...including those who had been born there. It was just a hunch, the healer knew, but it was worth checking out. "Accio file, Stubbs, Benedict!" The drawer of a nearby filing cabinet opened, and a thin manila folder flew out and floated towards him. He grabbed it out of the air, and flipped through the folder until he found a picture. The blood drained from his face.

A moment later, he was leaning on the front desk, eyes still wide with shock.

"Call the Auror Office," he told the bored-looking witch before him. "I need to speak to Harry Potter right away!"

At 10:00 PM on the thirty-first of August, Mr. Harry Potter was beginning his closing statements, and as promised, we have arrived just in time for them. He stood before the entire Wizengamot, and yet the mass of robed wizards that surrounded him did not seem to intimidate him, nor did it diminish his formidable presence. Despite his slight body he was still Harry Potter after all. Harry Potter, the youngest Head of the Auror Office in wizarding history, and the hero who had not only defeated Lord Voldemort, but who had also overcome death itself on at least two occasions. His voice required no amplification; the room had fallen silent, and all eyes and ears were fixated on him.

"You've all heard my points and arguments," he began. "They are, of course, simply words, and they carry little meaning. But you have a far more valuable resource on which to base your decision. You have experience." He paused for a moment, allowing the statement to briefly hover over the Wizengamot before beginning again. "You have seen the damage that the Dark Arts are capable of causing if left unchecked. You know that countless lives have been lost in the two wars against Lord Voldemort." He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the minority of wizards who still winced at the mention of the former Dark Lord's name. "And you have witnessed, some of you firsthand, the danger that the Dark Arts can pose to this Ministry if we allow it inside.

I know that we will never be able to fully cleanse our world of darkness. That is just wishful thinking. But we can limit its influence. We can control it. We must control it. And above all, we must not allow ourselves to either forget the danger that darkness poses, or believe ourselves to be above it.

For these reasons, the Ministry must not continue to employ Dementors as prison guards. Not only are they unquestionably Dark creatures, but they are also perhaps the last remaining species to actually prey on human beings. And they do not distinguish between the guilty and the innocent. I have been attacked on numerous occasions, as have many others. This was most evident during the war thirteen years ago, in which the Dementors turned against us, and sided with Lord...with the Death Eaters. In my opinion, that last fact alone should be sufficient reason for us to discontinue their use as guards for Azkaban. We witnessed them stand by and allow some of the most dangerous and violent criminals in the Wizarding world to escape! And beyond that, subjecting those convicted of even the most heinous of crimes to prolonged exposure to the Dementors is a complete travesty of justice! It is the cruellest form of torture that exists, crueller even than the Cruciatus Curse, for the Cruciatus Curse can be endured only for minutes, perhaps hours. The kind of torture endured by a prisoner of Azkaban lasts for years without reprieve.

Thirteen years ago, a great evil was banished from our world. Because of that, we were given an opportunity to ensure that the mistakes of the past are never repeated. We live in a new and privileged age, and we owe it to our fellow wizards to ensure that the Wizarding world is the kind of world that they can be proud to live in. And not only to ourselves; we owe this to our children too. I owe it to my children to stand before you tonight and ask you to consider the mistakes of the past." He bit his lip, dreading the inadequacy of his conclusion. "And...and we owe it to the ones we left behind to make sure that their sacrifices were not in vain." With this, he returned to his seat. He bit his lip, knowing there was so much more he should have said.

A moment passed in silence, and then another. Then, a man with silvery-grey hair and permanently laughing eyes stood up and began to applaud. The rest of the room soon chimed in, including Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, although there seemed to be a distinct reluctance in his manner. Once the wizards present had applauded to their own satisfaction, they began to retake their seats in small clumps, some seeming eager to be the last one standing for the Harry Potter. But eventually, only the sliver-haired wizard remained standing. He cleared his throat, and the room fell silent once again as he began to speak.

"Well done Mr. Potter. That was very well said." Harry felt physically sickened by the patronizing tone in his honey-sweet voice. He had respected this man, Arcturus Crawley...the wizard's reputation as a speaker had preceded him...but throughout the entire debate, Crawley's strategy had invariably been to treat Harry as though he were an inexperienced young newcomer. The experience had been galling beyond belief.

"And he is right, of course," Crawley continued, now addressing the Wizengamot. "We owe it to our fellow wizards to ensure that our world is the kind of world they can be proud to live in. We owe our children a safe and secure society in which to grow up. And, as Mr. Potter so strongly emphasized, we owe it to all the dear friends and family we lost in the war to ensure that their noble sacrifices were not in vain." It was only for a fleeting second, but Harry was certain he saw a mocking smile flash across Crawley's face. "And he is also right to say that, while the darkness can never completely be banished from this world, it can be checked. The darkness in this world is real, make no mistake. But the greatest threat to our world comes not from Dementors. No my friends, the greatest threat to our world comes from the darkest elements of our own race. The greatest threat to our world is the Dark wizards and witches among us.

Yes, we have seen the danger that the Dark Arts pose to this Ministry. I will not mince words: we were defeated, subjugated, taken in. But I remind you, my friends, that this was the result of human action! The war thirteen years ago was not fought against Dementors! No contingent of Grindylows stormed the Ministry! Our loved ones did not give their lives to prevent our subjugation by giants! The danger lies, as it always has, with the human agents of evil." Throughout this entire performance, Crawley maintained an almost jovial attitude. The dancing lights never once went out of his eyes.

"Now, Mr. Potter has argued that subjecting convicted prisoners to the effects of the Dementors is unethical, barbaric even! But do I really need to remind you of the crimes these prisoners are guilty of? We are not talking about wizards who left their broomsticks in Minster Shacklebolt's private parking space!" A polite ripple of laughter spread through the room. "The criminals in question are murderers and psychopaths. Indeed, some are even former Death Eaters. Are these really the sort of people whose welfare should concern us? I wonder if Mr. Potter would display such a bleeding heart for, say, Fenrir Greyback, or Bellatrix Lestrange, especially considering the...personal grievances that he would have against the latter."

That was it. That was more than Harry was going to take. Harry shot up, and began to speak before the words were even fully formed in his mind, not noticing that Crawley had paused as if to allow his interruption.

"You've got some nerve!" Harry spat furiously. "Sirius Black was condemned to your idea of justice! He would've suffered a far worse fate at your hands than the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange!"

"Mr. Potter!" Shacklebolt's voice rang out. "It is not your turn to speak."

"Minister Shacklebolt!" Harry protested. Kinglsey had been Sirius' friend! He couldn't possibly allow his memory to be used in this way! "Surely this is out of line!"

"Mr. Potter," Shacklebolt repeated, slowly and sternly, yet strained as if holding back screams. "It is not your turn to speak."

By 10:30 PM, the debate was over, and despite the fact that the Wizengamot has yet to come to a formal decision, Harry knew he had lost.

"I shouldn't have let him get to me," he told Ron Weasley angrily. The two Aurors walked briskly through the winding corridors of the Ministry, making their way to the Atrium.

"Hey, don't put this on yourself. That stuck-up bastard's got no business talking about Sirius that way! The man died fighting against everything Crawley stands for!"

"I know," Harry said darkly, "but I doubt he'd be very pleased with me right now. God...I'm not cut out for this."

"That doesn't sound like the Harry Potter I know," Ron pointed out.

"Yeah, well the Harry Potter I know wouldn't get pushed around so easily," Harry replied, his mood unchanged. "Anyways, what's the deal with this St. Mungo's thing?" he asked, eager to change the subject.

"A paper airplane came in just as you were wrapping up," Ron said, obliging him. "The healer who sent it requested you personally."

"Strange," Harry mused. Soon after he had assumed office, he had received at least nine personal requests a week, mainly from young witches eager to see the Harry Potter rescue their cats from trees and the like, but such requests had all but faded into nonexistence by now.

The duo soon reached the Atrium, quickly took the Floo route to the surface, and walked a few blocks away from the Ministry entrance. Thankfully, the night was warm and without rain.

"Any Muggles around?" Harry asked his friend.

"Nah, just you and me mate," Ron replied. Seizing the opportunity, the two friends quickly Apparated to St. Mungo's. Their arrival had been delayed enough already, and both were eager to return to their true element.

Upon their arrival, they were quickly shepherded away by the limping healer.

"I've been a healer for thirty years, and I've never seen anything like it," he told the two Aurors as he led them to the morgue. "I mean, I've seen curses do some pretty horrific things to the body, but this is something else." Once inside, the healer closed the door, and levitated Mr. Stubbs' body onto the table. "How old would you say this man was at the time of death?"

"Er...Ninety-something?" Ron guessed.

"Twenty-six," the healer corrected him.

"Twenty-six! Bloody hell..."

"What is this then?" Harry questioned. "Some kind of ageing charm gone wrong?"

"Possible, but unlikely under the circumstances," the healer told him. "At a first glance, it would seem that way; even the autopsy seemed to confirm it. But...when we brought him in, he was screaming incoherently. However, right before he died, he did manage to say one thing."

"And that was...?" Ron prompted him.

"I'm going to kill every last one of you," the healer told him dryly.

"Charming bloke, wasn't he?" While Ron bantered with the healer, Harry was examining the corpse, paying special attention to Mr. Stubbs' eyes.

"Lumos," he muttered, shining the light that emanated from his wand into the dead man's eyes. "Interesting..." he mused.

"And there's something else that might interest you Mr. Potter," the healer said. "Right as he died, I saw something that looked like a bit of smoke coming out of his mouth." Harry spun around instantly, twitching as if electrically shocked.

"Are you absolutely sure?" he demanded. "Are you completely sure that's what you saw?"

"I wouldn't have asked for you personally if I hadn't. I figured you'd be the one to ask about such things."

"I've never heard of a curse with that side-effect," Ron told Harry.

"That's because this man hasn't been cursed," Harry said darkly. His heart was pounding beyond his control, and he felt a sickening feeling settle in his stomach. "He's been possessed."

"Possessed?" Ron said, confused. "You mean like..."

"Yeah," Harry said, and for the first time in his life, the name that came into his mind actually frightened him. "Like Voldemort used to do."

By now, it was after 11:00 PM on the thirty-first of August, and I was blissfully unaware of the events that had just transpired. I couldn't possibly know of the great and terrifying evil that had been unearthed. I couldn't know about the conspiracy whose tendrils had reached into my life long before I was born. And I definitely couldn't know that the next ten months would be the strangest and most eventful time of my life. All that I knew as I finally fell asleep was that come tomorrow, the first of September, my fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would begin.