Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I write for entertainment purposes and not for pay.

Author's Note: Here's the second chapter for this week! I hope you enjoy this bonus chapter and please let me know what you think as we finally get to see a very important character!

Prisoner 79934: Genevra Weasley

By: Rae

- A Harry Potter Story -

"Lies! Lies! Lies! I never followed him I tell you! Never! Never! Never!"

"Don't let 'em near me. Don't let 'em, Mum. Don't let 'em near me. I never. Don't. Mum, please! Please!"

"The gryphon told me to. It wasn't me. It was the gryphon. All the gryphon. Everyone should listen to the gryphon. Listen. It wasn't me. I listen to the gryphon."

"Cornelius Fudge is a Dark Lord! He has a wrackspurt in his brain controlling his actions!"

"SHUDDUP!"

The cry resounded in a booming, deep voice over the cells and their raving prisoners. A short silence fell on the hall. In the silence, the only sound was the rustling of a set of papers, a kind of contraband most prisoners hadn't seen in decades.

The prisoner creating the rustling sound looked up at the silence but only briefly. He was too curious to see what had happened in the outside world and had very little else to concentrate on. He was settled on the pallet of his cell, next to the doors and tucked into the furthest back corner of the hall where the guards entered and exited.

He leaned back over the papers in front of him, reading rapidly. Every line, every image was studied, memorized, given time. Anything to avoid the constant barrage of thoughts in his head.

The day before Fudge had come on his annual inspection. The only notable thing about this was how it sounded the passage of time in this prisoner's life. Twelve years. Twelve years in this hellhole and untold number to go.

As Fudge hummed a tune and laughed at his own jokes, the prisoner generally played up the images of himself as a madman. It usually resulted in Fudge leaving faster, but something about his conversation yesterday had caught the prisoner's attention.

So as Fudge turned to leave, the man whispered a question. It was the first time he'd spoken in a near-normal tone of voice in some time. He spent most of his voice on screaming during the visits from the Dementors. Perhaps that was why they all stopped and stared at him.

"Are you done with that?" He whispered, his voice hoarse and cracking.

Cornelius Fudge stopped and stared at him. "What?" He asked dumbly, looking at the prisoner.

"Your paper," he whispered. "Are you done with it?"

The Minister held it up and looked at it for a second before shrugging and tossing it through the bars. It landed on the ground a few feet in front of the prisoner. "It's all yours," Fudge said carelessly, turning and walking on through the halls of Azkaban.

Now he was reading through it again, having immediately read through the issue as soon as the Minister left. Before he could process much of it, however, the Dementors came through the hall, and he'd been left screaming with the rest of his prison mates.

He was reading about a man caught hexing Muggles to think their automobiles had moved from their parking spots when he moved onto the next article, noting the picture under the title.

Four boys stood side by side in the image, and one of them appeared to be extremely uncomfortable at his proximity to the rest as he leaned away from the twin who was next to him. And a twin it clearly was. His mirror image stood beside him, an arm draped over his shoulders and a winning grin plastered across his freckled face. The fourth boy had the gangly look of a young teen still growing into his limbs. He was all awkward angles and slight embarrassment as he stood stiffly next to his brothers.

The prisoner read the caption underneath: "The Weasley brothers returning to Hogwarts this year. From L to R are Percy, Fred, George, and Ronald Weasley, brothers to the Heir of Slytherin."

He studied the photo again, looking at each boy in turn a little closer. They all shared red hair and lightly freckled faces, and all but the oldest appeared to be quite tall. The twins wore matching outfits with blue shirts and pants while the oldest looked to be very proper. He had his Head Boy badge pinned to his shirt. It was clearly shined to a sheen. The fourth boy had a rat perched on his shoulder.

For a moment, the prisoner studied the image of the rat. Then he stilled.

One word slipped through coarse, chapped lips. "Wormtail."

A finger stroked the page with the rat, stopping to rub almost lovingly over the rodent, its long nail making a soft scratching noise.

The other prisoners had begun to clamor again, but the prisoner remained still, slowly but steadily stroking the page in front of him.

Darkness fell and one by one, the prisoners eased into dark dreams and nightmares leading to the occasional shriek. The quiet and dark was the best time to consider some truths, and this is what the prisoner did now.

A soft tap of a nail on the stone floor preceded each point, and there were only three in simple words the prisoner spoke with a croak.

One. "Innocent."

Tap.

Two. "Wormtail."

Tap.

Three. "Harry."