Hi!
Chapters will posted on thursdays now ;)
May 2003
The Daily Prophet had announced the day before that the Quidditch World Cup would start in June and be held in Ottawa, Canada. Selections for the national team had been made from all British teams two months earlier.
These teams had been greatly reduced in numbers after the war. Not many players were still alive and the ones that were, were not willing to compete. This meant that some teams didn't even have substitutes. As a result, the British national team only had four substitutes instead of eight.
Rather than picking any players that knew how to fly and could play the game, the coach had preferred to choose the best players. Some would give him credit, while others did not.
Unsurprisingly, Ginny Weasley was among the first category. Since leaving Hogwarts, she had been a chaser for the Holyhead Harpies and had been personally selected for the national team. She had thought about refusing, unsure if she wanted to be away from her family for so long, after the end of the war. However, that was before she met the team nurse.
Astoria Greengrass was a year younger than her. She'd never noticed her at Hogwarts, hardly ever met her really. The only thing she knew about her was that she was the younger sister of Daphne Greengrass, one of Theodore Nott's friends, whom she knew a little.
Being the only two women on the team, they had formed a bit of a comradery, which had taken them both by a bit of a surprise.
It hadn't taken Ginny long to fall for her. Their private meetings had begun as irregular and spaced out, but they quickly ended up seeing each other several times a week.
A moment of respite in the midst of the chaos that was the post-war period, they said.
Astoria was suffering from the support she gave her sister, whose boyfriend –Gregory Goyle– was locked up in Azkaban, and their father, after the death of their mother.
Ginny, on the other hand, was suffering the grief and sorrow of her relatives following the death of her brother, in addition to her own pain.
"We should run away together," Astoria said one night.
Ginny had joined her at her place, after her training. They were lying in Astoria's bed, sharing a cigarette, their legs entwined.
"Don't be silly," Ginny laughed softly, before pulling on the butt.
"I'm serious, Gin'. After the World Cup, we should travel. Just you and me. Around the world."
Ginny frowned and turned her head towards her.
"Wait, do you really mean that?" she asked, confused.
Astoria nodded and straightened up on one elbow to face Ginny.
"Think about it. You and me. Around the world. In overpriced hotels that my idiot father would pay for. We'd get to experience all sorts of cultures, all sorts of landscapes, and meet all sorts of people. We wouldn't be Ginny Weasley and Astoria Greengrass anymore. We would be two travellers, enjoying our youth and discovering the world. You could live your dream of being a photographer, without the pressure of your family to become a famous Quidditch player. I could be healing people around the world like I've always wanted to and not be locked up in a Quidditch team full of vile men who only want my tits."
"I want your tits too," Ginny joked, smirking wryly.
"Gin'! I mean it! Think about it. It would be just you and me," she whispered as she rolled onto her side to find herself right on top of her lover, elbows on either side of her breasts, their naked bodies pressed together under the covers.
Ginny just looked at her, silently smoking her cigarette. She was puzzled. She couldn't figure out if Astoria was serious or not. If she was really considering the two of them leaving.
"What about our families?" she asked in a low voice.
"Screw them! We have given enough! It's been years since the war ended. We have to think for ourselves, Gin'. We're not going to move forward in this atmosphere of grief, sadness and depression. We need to get on with our lives now. We are both grown up and have our lives ahead of us. We have to make the most of it!"
Ginny couldn't help but laugh at her determination. She smiled without taking her eyes off her.
"Don't laugh! I'm serious," Astoria grumbled, slapping her arm.
Ginny put her cigarette on the ashtray on the bedside table and reversed their positions so that she was above Astoria. She couldn't help but kiss her tenderly.
"After the World Cup?" she asked against her lips.
Astoria nodded with determination.
"After the World Cup," she confirmed.
oOo
December 2003
"It's all a bunch of bullshit!"
Her husband's shout was not enough to bring Pansy out of her reading of the Prophet. This annoyed Blaise prodigiously, who dropped into a seat opposite her.
She was sitting comfortably on a sofa, dressed in a simple nightie, her reading glasses hanging down her nose and deeply concentrated. Blaise sighed.
He knew that he spent his time repeating the same things, but his life had had no other meaning than justice for four years. He decided not to add anything, waiting for his wife to deign to look up at him. He knew that she would only listen to him when she had finished her page.
A few minutes passed, allowing him to relax at the same time, before she took off her glasses and put them on a pedestal table, next to her newspaper.
"What happened?" she then asked, in a soft voice that she reserved only for him. "Come and explain."
She patted the seat to her right and he rose with a sigh to join her. He sat down beside her and was about to speak when she shook her head to silence him.
He looked at her confused, but she just smiled and kissed his cheek. Then, silently, she helped him remove his suit jacket, then his watch and finally his shoes, which she placed on the coffee table. Then she unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt and leaned over to kiss him tenderly.
"Tell me about it," she whispered.
Without his noticing, his shoulders had relaxed and his breathing had calmed down. He smiled and kissed her chastely, before holding her close.
"They rejected my bill again before they even read it. I've been trying to get Shacklebolt's secretary to let me see him all day, with no success. I'm getting really fed up," he sighed, letting his head fall back on the back of the sofa.
"Did you owl it to him this time?"
"Only to have my owl come back? No, thank you. I even had Potter send it for me, but obviously Shacklebolt has figured out we're friends and doesn't read his mail anymore either."
"And Granger? Last time it worked, didn't it?"
"I told you, she's been unreachable for a fortnight. And I don't have time to go all the way to France to get her to send a bloody letter to the minister, which he won't even read."
"Unreachable? Wasn't Harry supposed to visit her two days ago?" gasped Pansy.
"Yes, but he had a setback, a last minute assignment Robards gave him. He didn't come back until this morning."
Pansy nodded her head gravely in response, looking more sorry than ever. Blaise knew she would have liked to help in some way, but her job on Diagon Alley was far too busy. Since she'd bought Madam Malkin's shop to sell her own creations, she didn't have a minute to herself.
He sighed again and ran a hand over his face.
"I need a drink," he mumbled as he stood up.
"What about Abbot? I thought you'd managed to convince her to join forces with you for the next Wizengamot meeting?" said Pansy, as he uncorked a bottle of pure fire whisky.
"Didn't I tell you the great news?" he replied sarcastically. "She and Longbottom are having a kid! She'll be off a week before the assembly."
"Already?!" she exclaimed, eyebrows raised. "But they're not even married!"
"Pansy, dear, don't forget that you're one of the few witches alive to carry on the old Pureblood traditions," he teased, offering her a wink.
He narrowly avoided the pillow she threw at him and her laughter echoed throughout the flat as he ran off to their room.
oOo
January 2004
It had been about six years. That was what Draco had managed to calculate.
Of course, he had no certainty as everything was still very vague, but he had a hint of hope in imagining he was right. It was a way of staying grounded in reality, however far away from Azkaban it might be.
The wardens had changed since his arrival. The violence, whatever it was, had lessened, but not completely disappeared. His conditions were much better, but still not acceptable for a human, if he was honest.
Of course, he found it difficult to be honest. He couldn't get rid of his guilt. He couldn't forgive himself for his past mistakes. So how could anyone else?
Draco wrote, sometimes. He wrote down his thoughts, and drew a little bar for each sunset. He drew one for each blow he received. For every meal.
He didn't really have a goal in doing it. It kept him sane. It kept him focused.
He counted the number of times the guards came and went outside his cell. He counted the number of times it rained per week. He counted and recounted the number of slabs on the floor.
86. He never made a mistake.
He took off and put on his prison uniform to maintain a minimum routine. All this with the sole aim of remaining lucid.
He had no hope of rebuilding himself the day he finally got out of this Death Eater hole, that would have been far too utopian for him. He just hoped that he would be sane enough to kill himself when he had the chance. He didn't want to be in some kind of vegetative state because he'd been locked up for twenty years in the same little 8 m2 room. He had counted that too.
He sometimes imagined meeting his mother on his way out. Taking her in his arms and holding her close to his heart. Telling her how sorry he was, as he had never had the chance to do so.
He dreamed of his friends. He dreamed of Hogwarts. He had nightmares. A lot. Mostly.
He saw himself at Voldemort's side, sitting at his table, dining with him, talking with him, or being tortured by him. He saw Nagini devouring one of his professors.
His screams haunted the wizarding prison, he had no doubt.
The food was as bad and insubstantial as ever, but it was better than nothing. He didn't need a mirror to know that he was horribly underweight. He could tell by the thinness of his wrists, his thighs and his waist.
He had a beard now. Not that he would have chosen it, though– it was awfully itchy. He'd even come to the point of trying to pull it off at times. It didn't work.
He felt dirty. He was dirty. His nails were black, his skin greyish, not to mention his hair, which he knew had lost its former glory. He wouldn't have been surprised if some of it had gone naturally grey.
He practised his speech, alone in his cell. Sometimes even to the laughter of passing guards. He took comfort in the fact that he was doing it for a good cause. He did not want to lose his ability to speak. It would be the only weapon he had left if he ever got out.
He knew he was incapable of anything else. He was not fast, he was not strong, he was clumsy and unable to defend himself here. He would flinch at the slightest noise, he was afraid of physical contact and the mere idea of leaving his cell terrified him. He tried not to show it, though. Only his crying and nightmares betrayed him.
Despite all this, he tried to comfort himself by thinking that he had already been in prison for six years. He had only fourteen years left and he would be free. If he didn't die first.
oOo
April 2004
Harry pulled the collar of his uniform back into place, blew out a breath and walked out of his office.
Today would be his last chance to ever join the Azkaban Watchers' Brigade. He knew it.
Robards would be leaving for the States the following week and his successor was far more vindictive than he. So Harry would have no chance of serving in the wizarding prison. On top of that, he was well aware of the resentment that his boss's replacement felt towards him. He had made it clear to him many times, arguing that everything Harry had fought in prison reforms since the end of the war was against everything they had fought for during the war.
Harry had thought several times of pointing out to him that he had not fought in the war, but had chosen not to, not wanting to risk losing his position.
It had been a long time since Harry Potter was respected and even deified by some, he often thought.
When he arrived in front of his superior's office, he knocked on the door. He did not have to wait long before he was allowed in.
Robards was sitting in his large armchair, bent over some files, a cigar between his lips.
"Hello, Chief, I–"
"Sit down, Potter," he cut him off without even looking up at him.
Harry swallowed and complied. He could already sense that things were not going to turn out in his favour. Robard' didn't seem to be in the mood to grant anything, and certainly not something he had already refused several times.
Harry was already terribly annoyed. He didn't want to waste any more time on this. He would have been better off pursuing a career in magical law, like Blaise. Perhaps he would have had better results.
"The answer to your question is no," Robards announced directly.
"But–"
"I'm not finished, Potter."
Harry fell silent immediately and scowled in his seat, his right leg twitching in annoyance. He wanted to yell at him, to let him know what a mistake he was making in denying him the job, but he didn't. He had to calm his impulsiveness, strange as it may seem for a Gryffindor.
Robards finally took his eyes off his files and sat back in his chair to look at Harry.
"The minute the post-war trials ended, you knocked on my desk to be transferred to Azkaban. You tried again every year, sometimes several times a year, but I never agreed."
Harry gritted his teeth and looked away. He didn't need such humiliation.
"Do you know why?" he asked, resting his elbows on his desk.
Harry laughed sarcastically at the question. He turned scornful eyes on his boss.
"Because you're just like all the others. Convinced that all Mark bearers are, without exception, criminals who deserve to rot in Azkaban for once deigning to do the wrong thing," Harry spat.
He hated Robards. He hated him from the depths of his soul.
He had been Harry's only obstacle, the only barrier to achieving his goal. Maybe he would have already got Theo out of prison if Robards hadn't stopped him from working there. Perhaps he would have found a way to assert the rights of the prisoners with the help of Blaise.
But he didn't. The bastard had continued to assign him to missions hunting dark wizards, robberies or mysterious murders, most of which turned out to be suicides of victims of the war deemed to collateral damage. He still remembered finding the hanged body of Narcissa Malfoy in her manor, three months after she had done it. What was left anyway.
He thought he would never be able to control himself when Robards replied with a soft laugh.
"You're wrong, Potter."
"Am I?" replied Harry wryly. "Then why did you deny me the bloody job for so many years? Huh? You knew it mattered to me!"
Harry felt like he was going to lose control. His blood was pounding in his ears and he had clenched his fists. It was at times like this that he wished Theo was there. Theo, who was so calm, so confident and diplomatic. He would have found the words to destroy Robards without even raising his voice.
"Your reasons are none of my business, Potter, and the least of my worries."
This only angered Harry more.
"However, your welfare, crazy as it may sound, is of concern to me."
Harry frowned as his leader took a deep breath. The look he gave him was suddenly much more serious.
"Believe me when I tell you that transferring you to Azkaban would be an unmitigated waste, Potter. Once you're sent there, you'll never be able to return to the ranks of the Aurors. You'll be stuck there for life. What happens when the person you wanted to see in Azkaban –because I'm not stupid, Potter, I understand your reasons– is released? Eh? You will continue to live in this hellhole, unable to do anything else."
"That'd be enough!" Harry cut him off, in a much less dry tone than before.
He couldn't believe that his superior could see it that way.
"You're kidding yourself, Potter! Have you even stepped inside that tomb? Because that's what it is! People are dying there! And those who live never really recover, whether they're prisoners or wardens! Is that what you want for your life? To enjoy a few years of glimpsing that person and then live through hell until you die within the walls of that damn prison? Don't be ridiculous, for Merlin's sake!"
Robards had risen in anger. He slammed his fist on the desk and turned away to the window of the room. Harry took the opportunity to lower his eyes and hide the tears that were threatening to fall from them.
He wouldn't listen to reason. He wouldn't relent.
There was a long silence. Harry's heart was pounding. He was very confused. He didn't want to give up. He couldn't give up.
"You want to lessen the sentences of some prisoners, don't you? Make it easier for them to serve their sentence and seek justice for those who didn't deserve it?" Robards finally said.
Harry straightened his head. Robards' back was still to him, facing the window.
"Why does it matter?" he asked defensively, through clenched teeth.
Robards turned slowly and sighed.
"What I'm about to tell you won't leave this office, Potter. I could lose my job, even in the States. Is that understood?"
Harry nodded without thinking. He was curious now.
"I've heard of a proposed law from the top brass of the Wizengamot that should solve all this," he announced gravely.
And Harry believed him.