Chapter 2
Moisture lashed the official and the members of his escort, drenching their cloaks and the exposed fingers that clutched the fabric. His teeth chattered and the taste of seawater found its way into his mouth. He muttered an incantation that renewed the warmth and water-repelling charms imbuing his clothing. His footing was precarious; he followed his guide with caution. The Dementor leading the way was undisturbed by the cold and paused patiently whenever he lagged behind.
Azkaban's architects made a number of departures from the standard panoptic design. Most notably, Bentham had envisioned a landlocked prison, not a seaborne one. Magic opened the door to a wealth of possibilities, one of which was realized in the stone slabs that circled Azkaban. Networks of them hovered in loose ring-shaped formations that bordered the walls.
Nine of these rings allowed external access to the cells, all of them incomplete.
That last fact worried the official to no end as he looked longingly to the rowboat that had ferried him to the prison. The voyage from the shore to the prison had taken only an hour, shortened by the use of propulsion spells. After disembarking and stepping onto the lowest of the rings, their rowman had steered his vessel around with a series of oar-strokes. the propulsion spells took effect once the turn was completed and launched it into the distance.
He couldn't spare too many moments gazing after the rowboat, not with the constant movement of the slabs beneath his feet. As he approached, the stones interlocked, becoming flush with one another to form a walkway.
The waves broke upon the worn but sheer surface of Azkban's walls. The surf climbed higher sometimes and overlapped their feet before receding. They never reached past their knees though, as the stones responded by rising a little higher, taking them beyond reach of the tide. He had looked forward to the stability of the stones after enduring the endless lurching motion of the rowboat, but was disappointed. The stones possessed an alarming quality of giving slightly under his weight and only returning to their previous height after he stepped off. If one of the Aurors at his back followed too soon, the stone would sink further, slowing their progress to a crawl.
The official had not fallen behind and so did not expect the Dementor to halt abruptly. Unwittingly he bumped into its back, and experienced a fleeting sensation of being ensnared in a mesh net. Like a screen drawn taut across a doorway, stretching forward a little before launching him back. Iciness began to spread over his chest where he had touched it, and the official stumbled backward. The Auror behind him caught him by the arm. He regained his balance and mumbled his thanks. The Dementor gave no indication of annoyance and merely stood still, in silent communication with something.
He lifted his chin and glanced over the Dementor's shoulder - the creature was remarkably tall - and saw that they had reached a gap. The walkway resumed nearly ten feet on the other side of it, curving out of view to conform to the circular shape of the prison. The human delegation shuffled behind its guide, unsure of what to expect.
Then, with a faint tremor, a length of the walkway detached, and the stones levitated upward, slotting into a gap in the ring above. The Dementor continued at a brisker pace and the party followed more at ease now that they were well above the waves. They repeated the process, gradually ascending the rings. The walkways ended unpredictably, sometimes immediately and other times only after they had traversed nearly a complete circuit. They were patternless as far as the official could see - the official deduced that dead ends would appear underneath the gaps in the rings above, but as if sensing his thoughts, the stones in the upper levels shifted, reforming gaps elsewhere.
Azkaban's outer rings were non-Static, an architectural term that meant they were not fixed in a certain place and could reconfigure themselves. Azkaban was structurally simplistic - a circle and a tower central to it - so its fluidity, though greater than its Muggle equivalents, was limited. With more complex strongholds such as Hogwarts however, things could get fanciful. The stairways at Hogwarts connected at balconies and floors wherever the students wished to be taken, but forced infiltrators into continual loops.
The official kept his gaze firmly ahead at first but could not prevent it straying sideways out of curiosity. A montage of gaunt faces greeted him. Heads thudded against the reinforced glass of the windows and he saw wide eyes and bared teeth. Mouths shaped words but failed to vocalize them. Silhouettes lurked in the corners of the cells and bodies propped against motionlessly against the walls like dolls.
Scowling at the portrait of human misery stretched out before him, he looked in the opposite direction, to the horizon. A distant speck was all he could make of the rowboat that had brought him to Azkaban. The violent tide nearly overturned it, and it was kept aloft only by its enchanted hull.
The Dementor stopped outside the cell containing the prisoner they sought, and reached into the bottomless darkness pooled beneath its hand retrieved a fistful of frayed black threads that clung to its face - thinning as it was stretched before snapping - and the Dementor molded it into the shape of a key. The official accepted it from the Dementor. It hardened, and he inserted it into the lock.
The curse impairing Harry's vocal chords lifted.
He noticed.
He had expected his breathing to ease a little, not to worsen. Nor had he expected his chest to flare alive with pain either. A cough, heavy with spittle, forced its way past his lips. Perspiration began to gather at his brow and his core temperature rose.
What the fuck? A moment ago he had been healthy and now he was a feverish wreck. Dimly, he realized the footsteps had fallen silent, replaced by the metallic groans rumbling from the door. The red dust of iron oxides spilled from the grilles in the door as its internal locks unfastened.
It swung inward, and Harry stared in disbelief as his visitor stepped inside.
"Oh surely not. They sent a Malfoy to liberate me?"
"I'll not lie. That was exactly the sort of welcome I was expecting," Draco Malfoy said, removing his hat in a mocking gesture of respect.
His frosty exterior lasted until the sound of his own voice registered. It was foreign to his ears, utterly unrecognizable and ringing with some raw, inner emotion he couldn't identify. Intrigued, he sat still and quietly muttered under his breath, listening carefully to himself. A small smile then formed on his lips. It widened as he began to guffaw uproariously.
I sound like a damn scarecrow.
He had no idea what a scarecrow might sound like but that didn't stop him from making the comparison. He climbed to his feet and was satisfied to note he was an inch or so taller than Malfoy even after years spent rotting away. Malfoy did not back down, but did clutch his wand tighter. Harry's laughter died away and he glared at Malfoy. What did the other wizard have to fear? He was wandless and in no condition to be casting spells, even if he could still properly pronounce Latin.
The hysteria faded.
"I suppose this means Voldemort won," he said flatly.
He could not fathom Malfoy being selected by the Ministry to retrieve him unless it was under Voldemort's control.
His strength deserted him entirely and he flung himself back onto the mattress. He had considered the outcome coming to pass during his imprisonment. If his agents had succeeded in tracking and destroying his Horcruxes, all that was left was for him to kill himself. It should be a simple matter, a painless Killing Curse and none of the failure inherent in slashing wrists. Was that why Draco had not killed him yet, because Voldemort had instructed him not to?
"No, actually. The Dark Lord is gone."
Harry blinked in puzzlement.
"Gone?" he asked, stifling the giggle that threatened to erupt at the absurdity of the prospect. He is never gone. You just don't know any better. "Not to flaunt the fact that I was ranked higher in the Death Eaters or anything, but I would know if he was gone or not. He isn't, you little lying wretch."
He made no effort at prudence. He had done too much worrying his life to care about the future of the Wizarding World. Still, there was something pitiable about the reversal of roles. Harry had never thought he would be the one reduced to petty insults while Draco refused to take the bait. The insults slipped right past his nonexistent self-control, eroded to nothing by years of solitude.
Draco bristled and his eyes flashed with their schoolyard enmity. They were placid an instant later and the wizard smiled condescendingly, no doubt aware of the irony in the affront. Harry shrugged and began toying with a loose thread from the sheets. He wound it around his fingers in an attempt to form the web structures he had seen children make.
He stared at his hands, keeping his gaze downcast to hide a smug smile.
Loop it around the index and forefingers…
Draco could enjoy looming over him in his stately robes, but it had no impact on Harry. Not when he could recall a dozen instances when he had outperformed the other wizard. Unlike Draco, he had never hesitated in killing an enemy after rendering him helpless, as Draco had with Dumbledore. Harry had never given Voldemort cause for disappointment, not until his treachery. It did not matter whether one pursued the path of the righteous or evil, but whether one did so with conviction. Draco had been desperate to leave Voldemort's service for months, kept only to amuse the Dark Lord and anchored by the dilemma of escaping without sacrificing his mother.
Harry looked more wretched at the moment, but he would never be the inferior man.
He separated his hands, pulling the string taut in the shape of a rectangle. He rotated his left hand and folded the rectangle over itself to form an hourglass. A little more complexity and he would have a snare he could trigger if someone stuck his wrist through it.
"Not dead," Draco clarified. " Gone. Abandoned the Death Eaters the year after you were sent to Azkaban. The public doesn't know any better, of course…"
His fingers were tangled uselessly in the strand. A pulse of pain wracked his mind, causing the mishap.
Ah.
That made more sense. Marginally.
The Dark Mark had twinged as recently as a week ago, so Voldemort was still active and in bodily form. The end of his first year of imprisonment coincided with the Dementors returning to their posts, ending their revolt from his fifth year at Hogwarts. For all its problems and the dire straits it navigated, the Ministry would not accept the Dementors without a very solid reason.
But the idea of Voldemort disappearing was still outlandish. Why would he suddenly suspend his campaign? Was Voldemort researching magic related to the soul abroad, to see whether he could undo from Harry's trickery? And that still didn't answer why Draco was his liberator. He began to suspect an elaborate plot. If Voldemort had won, he could arrange whatever he wanted, including the return of the Dementors to Azkaban. Questions swam in his head, but he would find answers to none of them through speculation.
"You… don't seem very upset."
Draco did not look upset, he looked gleeful. His face alone showed nothing – he looked very mellow in fact – but Harry knew how to study signs. There was an amused glint in Malfoy's eye reminiscent of children watching ants on a sunny day. Their conversation, like those they had in Hogwarts, had turned into a confrontation, with Harry trying to ignore his ignorance of worldly affairs while Draco basked in his familiarity with them. Only, Draco could afford to be spineless and let himself be bullied about because nothing Harry could do or say could annoy him truly. Even if the ant bit, Draco controlled the magnifying glass. It was the malicious glee of an unruly child enjoying a joke he had no intention of sharing with Harry. Instinct told him Harry would find out, only not in the most ideal of circumstances.
"No," Draco said, smiling in agreement, "I have a reason to be happy. And – at long last, friend - so do you..."
Reaching into his robes, he produced a narrow box identical to those piled high in Ollivander's shop. Harry's eyes locked onto it raptly. It was a ravishing sight to him and excitement swelled in his chest, other emotions on its heels. His vision blurred with the dizziness induced by his fever and his anger that Malfoy had been entrusted with his beloved wand.
He uttered a guttural growl that was animalistic and Draco froze, allowing him to snatch the package from his hands.
Undoing the latch, he opened the box and thought he might weep when he saw the eleven inches of holly cushioned by purple velvet. His legs felt unsteady so he simply sat down and leaned against the wall. He traced a finger delicately over its length, reveling in the smoothness of the wood grain. He lifted it and held it above him so that it caught the light that streamed in and scrutinized the alignment of fibers exposed after two decades of use had worn away the thin coating of paint. His shoulders relaxed as he admired the sight. He marveled at how his memory had perfectly preserved the image of his wand, and his eyes flew along it, pinpointing each spiral. Some of the corkscrew shapes were interlocked nears the wandtip, where the growth rings of the holly tree from which the wand-wood was taken had misaligned.
It was beautiful, and it was his.
His familiarity with his wand was absolutely secure despite their separation, reassuring him and overwhelming his insecurities. The feeling of insignificance, reinforced night after night of knowing the world beyond his few feet of stone turned without him when once he was its axis, instantly dissipated. A changed world awaited him, this he suspected from Draco's unusual confidence, and some of the changes would surely displease him. They were meaningless. His wand, his most prized possession that remained to him, was the same. That was all that mattered.
If he didn't like the Wizarding World he was returning to, he could make adjustments.
"They never snapped it?" Harry asked as he gave it a swish and flick, delighting in its suppleness.
"No. Pius Thicknesse intervened on your behalf, citing the Brother Wand effect as an advantage of preserving it."
Harry tensed as he felt the invisible weight of the stare from the tower again, dampening his mood. He could take action this time. Turning to face it he muttered a spell hat caused the glass to frost over, obscuring the view. Ignoring Draco's questioning look, he strode to the window and pressed his finger to it at shoulder-height. He scrawled a message through the condensation. Good-bye you damn voyeur.
There was something cathartic about his crude farewell.
"I doubt they expected it to wind up with me again… How did they manage to secure my release? I thought it takes a two-thirds majority in the Wizengamot to approve a pardon."
"Oh I wouldn't know," Draco said with a vague hand gesture.
It must have taken a miracle. Other Death Eaters had won their freedom against all reason though; Harry supposed he wasn't going to complain.
His attention wandered back to his wand's container. In the wand-shaped mould, under where his wand had rested, glinted a brooch. A transparent layer of black and golden enamel decorated the decorative clasp. The Auror insignia was inlaid into the metal beneath the enamel surface, a wand crossing a morning star surrounded by a ring of light. A subtle glow emanated from the brooch, the same hue of the golden ring, making the halo indistinguishably light and metalwork.
"They are reinstating you as an Auror," Draco added as if in afterthought. "To your rank prior to your promotion. Earl Zwerling remains the Head of the Aurors.
Harry rubbed the brooch between his fingers, pensive as he felt the texture. The dark enamel was supposed to symbolize the Auror creed. Due to his efforts, that light had nearly been smothered. The thought of wearing it again amused him. The surviving members of his former subordinates, whose companions he had purposely gotten killed or grievously injured under a pretense of leadership, would no doubt be thrilled to have him back. At least the position he would assume was still lofty enough that Zwerling could not send him off on a suicide mission. They would have to work a little harder to get rid of him.
Something was fucked up beyond recognition however, if he was not only released at all but re-commissioned as an Auror.
His suspicions began to coalesce into the beginnings of paranoia.
"Society is really quite kind to you, giving you a job. It would be unfair otherwise, given the confiscation of your monetary assets."
The strengthening feeling of wrongness began to irritate him. Harry wondered whether this was a karma-induced payback for Lucius was put into Azkaban in his fifth year. That had indirectly begun the long downfall of the Malfoy family. The loss of credibility was the most harmful consequence, leading Voldemort to force Lucius to surrender all his assets.
"Well, that's everything," Draco said cheerfully. "The Aurors outside have a Portkey waiting for you. Every issue of the Daily Prophet since your incarceration has been archived in the Merlin Bibliotheca, so you have all you need to catch up."
Draco was slightly disconcerted by how Harry stared at him, tapping his chin thoughtfully as he did so.
What can put a damper on his happiness, he wondered to himself.
The answer occurred to him shortly.
He unrolled his left sleeve and bared his forearm.
"You know Malfoy, I committed a lot of petty atrocities, but this time I want to do it right. I figure a suitable first step would be to get rid of this little tattoo. Not very appropriate for an Auror, hmm?" he asked in a saccharine tone.
Clearing his throat of the phlegm accumulated there, he uttered a long sibilant hiss in Parseltongue and pressed his wand against his Dark Mark. A shorter hiss followed, but this time it was merely a hiss of pain. Crackles saturated the air and the Mark began to sizzle, the tattoo fluctuating as it solidified into an actual layer of a parched, leather-like substance. Draco stared wide-eyed at the sight, transfixed by the contortions of the tattoo. The slim lines of dark ink that defined the features of the snake's head darkened. In contrast, the vivid green and the red of the forked tongue in between the lines brightened. It reached a blinding intensity before it receded altogether.
The brand had hardened into a collection of gleaming scales that still steamed from the heat.
Harry gave it an idle flick.
Scales went scattering, exposing unblemished skin.
Un Marked skin.
"How do you live with wearing that thing?" Harry asked with a wrinkle of his nose. "Seriously, the top of the snake's head look like testicles. Nearly made me change my mind when I took the Mark. I suppose it suits your preferences though."
Cradling his wand, he strolled onto the walkway outside his cell. He stretched, flinging his arms to either side and rolling his shoulders back. He began leaping as high as he could, bouncing in a delirious joy without regard for the sinking motion of the stone slabs supporting him.
He stretched, flinging his arms to either side and rolling his shoulders began leaping as high as he could, bouncing in a delirious joy without regard for the sinking motion of the stone slabs supporting him.
How do I feel, Harry pondered. Enlivened? He decided to leave it at that when the Auror closest to him – expressionless and too young to have been employed until after his imprisonment - handed him a small clock that could fit in his palm.
He was happy to leave behind Draco sputtering and bewildered by his miraculous removal of the Dark Mark.
He was happier to leave behind the watchmen of his mind.
All too soon, Harry found himself lamenting the loss of his freedom as he arrived at the Portkey's destination. He landed with a thump that numbed his feet but managed to keep his balance. He swayed a bit as he cleared the dizziness. Stark white softened by oaken panels formed the walls of the narrow corridor. He glanced up and saw the familiar crystal bubbles containing candles hovering above. The closed double doors behind him bore a plaque that read: FOURTH FLOOR – SPELL DAMAGE.
The fourth floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
What a freaking moodkiller, he thought grumpily.
The noise indicated bustling activity in the lobby, and he did not want to cause a ruckus. He swiveled around as a door to a ward opened slightly and a youthful witch peered through the sliver. She looked cautious as she examined him, but seemed heartened by his less than frightening appearance.
"You're late." she said reproachfully.
Her demeanor was good-natured despite her chastisement.
She opened the door fully and stepped to the side, gesturing welcomingly for him to enter. A small pit of dread formed in his stomach as he took a tentative step towards her. She did not resemble any of his victims so it was unlikely she intended to avenge a slain relative, but that did little to reassure him. A rapid Killing Curse and another headstone would join those in the cemetery at Godric's Hollow.
None after that.
He shuffled inside, wand clenched in a grip that whitened the knuckles in his hand. He deserved the most spectacular fireworks display of a death – dying at the hand of a girl a decade his junior was unacceptable. But what a girl. She was of medium height, a few inches shorter than him. Her attire, a green cardigan bearing the symbol of medicine, a serpent entwined around a slender rod, a white blouse under that and a matching skirt, flattered her curves. Flaxen hair gathered at the nape of her neck in a ponytail.
She strode to a cabinet and opened it, stepping on tip-toe and rummaging through its contents.
His throat burned and let out a hacking noise, and he massaged it ruefully. Despite his aptitude for the combative fields of magic, he had little affinity for healing spells.
Perhaps this visit was a necessary evil, Harry amended.
The coughing fit did not subside and alarmed, he cast a silencing charm. To his delight, not only did the coughs cease completely but the pains afflicting him vanished without a trace.
The nurse whirled around, expression livid.
"Undo that charm immediately, Mr. Potter."
Her voice rang commandingly as she crossed her arms beneath her ample chest. He wanted to ask why he should – only he could not verbalize anything unless he removed the charm.
How very circular.
Harry made a face as he cancelled the spell, dismayed as the constriction in his lungs returned full-force.
"You're fresh from Azkaban – pneumonia is a common case for pardoned prisoners," she said sweetly, bubbly once more.
"I got it in the last few minutes," Harry pointed out.
"Right, but only because of the silencing charm they placed on you," she explained. "It imposes an artificial condition on the lungs and prevents the vocal chords from vibrating. Otherwise, the breathing remains normal. Right after it lifted, your lungs reverted to its natural state, which unfortunately meant inflammation. This should cure it…"
She removed a crystal decanter filled with an amber-colored liquid from the shelf and lowered it onto the counter. Carefully she measured an amount of the mixture and poured it into a vial.
Suspicion bloomed in his mind as Harry accepted it from her and held it askance. It nearly escaped his notice, but the liquid shimmered while it sloshed around, flashing three colors in rapid succession. He hissed out of the corner of his mouth, and bubbles too miniscule to be noticeable to the nurse formulated near the surface, assuming the shape of a squiggle that split into three prongs. His gaze narrowed – it was the Parseltongue representation of a certain snake.
The mixture was tainted with extract from the Syracusan Trident breed of Runespoors.
The poison targeted the enzymes that created spells. Magic worked similarly to the biological concept of metabolic pathways – reactions catalyzed by a series of enzymes that were activated by syllables spoken either mentally or verbally. Hence the importance of incantations.
Face blank, he peered more closely at her. The girl dazzled him with a bright smile that revealed perfect white teeth, but her eyes were cold. Beyond the cordiality he glimpsed cruelty. Her eagerness was evident in how carefully she was watching him and how her smile widened the closer he brought the vial to his nose. Harry suppressed the shiver that traveled up his spine.
The poison would only act if he uttered a specific incantation, disrupting the reactions that shaped spells to disastrous consequence. This limitation made it only practical if the victim was susceptible to the Imperius. Otherwise, he needed to be manipulated into casting that fatal spell, or be dreadfully unlucky.
Why choose this most finicky of poisons over all others?
He debated over sparing her life.
Her smile quirked at the corners of her mouth devilishly. Not a trace of fear anywhere.
The urge to turn it upside down was barely quelled.
Smiling at her, he opened wide and tipped the vial, emptying its contents. The liquid slid down his gullet with a slosh.
Voldemort's teachings in Parseltongue allowed him to internalize the antidote to any poison of serpentine origin. Playing the unaware prey would give him an opportunity to survive an attempt to kill him – then he could take action accordingly.
Hm, tastes like wine, Harry thought, smacking his lips.
At least the potion worked, cleansing his throat and banishing the pressure on his lungs.
"Well, thanks," he said, feigning gratitude before he bolted for the door. "Since that is the only malady, I'm keen on returning to my home. I'll return if anything is amiss."
"My pleasure, Mr. Potter."
He had left Azkaban and wandered straight into an attempt to kill him not an hour afterward.
Guilty.
A unanimous ruling.
Harry wondered whether it was the pedophilia charge that cinched it.
The pedestal bearing him and the chair sank, lowering into a shaft hidden underneath it. Cables and a pulley system supported the pedestal as it descended into a cavernous chamber illumined only by braziers framing the egress. Logic dictated that directly below the courtroom was another level given the structure of the Ministry. Nothing magic couldn't solve, he supposed. At the bottom, an assemblage of Hit Wizards waited, presided over by half a dozen Dementors. Normally, Aurors would deliver the prisoners to Azkaban, but none were present. None of the loyalty he had won prior to his taking the Mark would benefit him now.
Harry did not rail against his fate. He had surrendered so much maneuvering himself to plant a dagger into Voldemort's back – Azkaban would be a relief.
He stared ahead unblinkingly, mind vacant.
A shout caught his attention. It was muted by the taunts and celebratory cheers that filled the courtroom. He glanced upward, and his world narrowed to that opening in the floor above. A figure was framed by the light streaming down, thin and reedy. He squinted but could not recognize the man at that distance.
"'Fraid I can't hear you, mate," he called.
There was a moment's pause.
"DID YOU KILL MY SON? DID YOU KILL HERMIONE?"
His eardrums throbbed as they were assaulted by Arthur Weasley's voice, magnified tenfold by a Sonorous Charm.
"DID YOU KILL THEM?"
His face flushed, simmering with rage. He struggled against his restraints, willing his unresponsive limbs to move.
"No!" he bellowed hoarsely, angling his head as far as the backrest of his chair would allow.
He gnashed his teeth at the question and the memory it triggered. The disastrous search for Slytherin's Locket at the Grimmauld's Place, where both Ron and Hermione had fallen to let him flee. He had yet to discover how Voldemort had breached the Fidelius Charm. One of his friends had divulged their purpose under torture, heralding the untimely end of the Horcrux hunt before it gained momentum.
He was still faithful to the cause even for the first few years after the calamity struck, but no one else knew. Or rather, none trusted his word.
"ARE YOU GUILTY?"
His silence answered for him.
A cable snapped, cut by a severing charm. It whipped through the air as the sudden loss of tension shook the pedestal. Jets of variously-hued light crossed above as the guards responded. The distraught father disappeared from view, but not before uttering another severing charm which slashed through an adjacent cable. His chair plummeted as the platform tilted vertically and entered a pendulous swinging motion.
He laughed breathlessly all the way down, tickled pink at how unexpectedly his second death had come as he began to freefall, helpless to prevent his rendezvous with the ground.
" Arresto momentum!"
The Hit Wizards weren't, however.
The charm terminated once he was safely a few feet above the ground and he landed in a graceless heap, his robe pooling over his head and upper body. He lay there facedown, and the Hit Wizards swarmed him as they began to unclasp the chains binding him to the chair, though they left the shackles around his wrists in their rightful place. Two men seized him under the arms and hauled him onto his feet. The rest of the company assumed their positions around them and the procession began to march towards the exit.
He hung limp and unresisting in their grip, staring at the grimy floor and deadened to the tumult erupting above, in a world he would be taking his leave of.
I'm trying to stay sane longer than you, Sirius. Am I doing it right?