Author's Note: So, as you have hopefully noted by now, my story jumps back and forth between Alana's journal, Harry's present, and Harry's memories. This is going to happen in just about every chapter; I enjoy telling stories out of chronological order. I hope you'll be able to follow the story; if you have any questions, please please please contact me and I'll do my best to explain the twisted workings of my convoluted mind.

Disclaimer: I am fully conscious of the fact that the Killing Curse kills people. So yes, I realize that Harry should not have survived the showdown I wrote in the last chapter. Fear not, the inconsistency will be explained later in the story.

September 01, 2018

For several long minutes, Harry merely stood at the window, trying to fight back his anger, to breathe, as Ginny had taught him to do.

Ginny…

Harry turned to look at the portrait of her that hung over the fireplace. He smiled sadly to himself, but refused to dwell on her. Memories of Ginny belonged to the day. Nighttime, for better or for worse, belonged to Alana. Tonight, especially.

He glanced at the black journal laying inoccuously on the arm of the chair. If everything in that book was going to make him as angry as he was now, he didn't want to read it…

But he felt as if he were being sucked in. For better or for worse, reading this journal was giving him a one-time-only opportunity to peer into Alana's mind, to hear her thoughts and to immerse himself in her psyche. Maybe he, like she, needed this journal and the closure it offered.

Running a hand through his messy hair, he slowly sat down, picked up the book, and started to read again.

After your defeat, the wizarding world fell into an all-out panic. News of your death and my betrayal spread throughout the world. You were an even bigger hero than you had been before, and I was a worse villain than Voldemort.

With you gone, the Dark Lord was free to ascend as high as he wanted. He cut down almost all of the members of the Order of the Phoenix-- Bill and Fleur Weasley, Severus Snape, Remus and Tonks Lupin, and so many others. The Dark Lord said their deaths were revenge for the deaths of Death Eaters-- Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov. But we all knew that he was just eliminating those who might try to organize one last resistance.

The Order of the Phoenix had been cast down. Voldemort controlled the Ministry of Magic by placing Rudolphus Lestrange into the Minister's spot. The wizarding world was laid low.

And I, the Dark Lord's Star, was exalted. He lifted me up above all others. I was his trusted right hand, the Lady of Darkness and Mistress of Evil, and I ruled the world.

I was his prisoner, his slave. Anything he wanted, he had Draco wish for, and it was granted. But he rewarded us lavishly for our servitude. We, and the rest of his inner circle, were given his complete protection. All we need do was serve him. All we need do was butcher our humanity, and we were given freedom.

But my freedom was short-lived. Eighteen months after the Dark Lord's triumph, I led a group of Death Eaters on a raid in Scotland. Our orders were to assassinate Minerva McGonagall, Alastor Moody, Severus Snape, and Kingsley Shacklebolt. My party was ambushed; I was the only one to survive. I was bound and trussed, then brought to an underground justice court. I was tried and convicted, then condemned to a life sentence in Azkaban.

Harry shook his head disbelievingly. She'd been thrown into Azkaban? Why had she not been released by Voldemort?

I see that incredulous look on your face. You don't understand why the Dark Lord wouldn't rescue me from prison, if he valued me so much.

Harry rolled his eyes; she'd always been able to read his mind. Her ability to pick him apart had always been one of her more infuriating talents…

Don't be annoyed. Of course I can guess your reactions. You really are very predictable, Harry.

He rolled his eyes. "Gee, thanks, Alana."

You're welcome.

Anyways… The reason that the Dark Lord didn't come to rescue me is simple. He didn't care. Voldemort didn't care about anyone, except insofar as their usefulness to him. If I was locked in Azkaban, then let me rot there, unless I got out and returned to him.

Azkaban by this time had been taken over by the underground Ministry, and had been restocked with dementors who'd been heavily bribed to return. I had been put under 24/7 guard.

I know that many people thought-- and still think-- that I should have been killed for my crimes. But the court knew me too well. They knew I would consider death a friend, a release from my mistakes. For me, a more fitting punishment would be to put me in the dementors' hands, to be forced to relive my mistakes again and again.

So I was locked in Azkaban. And I was forgotten.