Prisoners of Azkaban, Probationary Diaries August 2009, Prisoners #19-09-1979 and #09-01-1960

oooOooo

August 4, 2009

You have become strange in Azkaban. You keep counting the tiles of the floor and the cracks in the wall, whispering under your breath. At first I couldn't understand what you were saying. But then you looked at me suddenly and said very clearly:

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, born August 31, 1881, in Mould-on-the-Wold, died June 21, 1997, on the Astronomy Tower, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. His name was in the square below yours because you almost died for him."

I flinched so hard at hearing his name that Draco came to me, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"It wasn't your fault, Severus," he said. "You threw yourself in the way of a curse to save him. You almost died in Hermione's arms that night. If it is anyone's fault, it's mine. I've never seen my father angrier than that night, when I declared my allegiance to the Order for the first time.—And besides, he would have died anyway."

"We all die anyway," I sneered, although his words soothed me.

"It wasn't your fault either, Draco," you interrupted with the barest hint of your old bossiness. "Just his."

But then you shuddered, cringed and cowered, your head lowered, counting off tiles again and the names of the dead. Fear gripped me—have you become my own Ariana in those eleven years? Mad and strange and sweet and scared?

…I must have drifted away then. To the place I built for us inside of me. Our little white house nestling safely into that sheltered cove (because you liked Shell Cottage so much). With rambling roses always in full bloom and kittens playing in the sunshine. Four orange, like your beloved Crooks, and one black as coal…

When I came back to myself, it was late in the afternoon.

I fear I have become strange in Azkaban, too.

Draco put tea and papers on the table—the Prophet and the Quibbler.

Lord Voldemort is dead.

He died—how ironic!—on June 21, 2009, after ruling wizarding Britain as "Lord Protector of Magic" for eleven years.

[a smudge of bloody ink]

Lord Voldemort died of a [another smeared drop of blood] progressive lactose-intolerance that one fine day resulted in deadly anaphylaxis.

He had one mug of Nagini's milk too many.

[a third spot of ink]

…Lucius Malfoy is "Minister for Magic" now. "Minister", not "Lord Protector".

Bellatrix Lestrange is dead, too.

A hemorrhagic reaction of unknown origin.

Have we been set free just be caught and killed? Who is responsible for our tenuous toehold in a life of freedom? Who is reading these pages, drenched in blood, truth, and insanity?

Draco doesn't know—he hasn't been to the mainland in seven years.

"We need a plan," you said. "I must make a list."

I could have kissed you for that.

(I did kiss you for that.)

"You can't stay here," Draco warned. "They don't know I'm still alive."

We froze, you and I.

But it was I who pulled out my diary and held it out to Draco.

"They do now," I said.

oooOooo

A/N: Many thanks to Ayerf for beta-reading.

A few further notes:

# I am aware that normally "milking" snakes refers to their venom. This is not an error, but a part of the plot.

# The ink splodges are not random.

# This AU!Voldemort is not quite the psychopath & sociopath from canon; instead he has much political acumen. Keeping the survivors of the Final Battle alive gained him more than a blood bath—thus Hermione and Severus were incarcerated and not killed.

ETA: Many thanks to whitehound for pointing out a more correct birthdate for Albus Dumbledore.