CHAPTER 2: IN THE CLUTCHES OF AZKABAN
The gruff voice sliced through the haze of Harry's confusion, commanding him to wake up. Before he could process the surroundings, a bucket of ice-cold water cascaded over him, jolting him into wakefulness. Sputtering, Harry struggled to comprehend where he was and how he had ended up in this predicament.
Realization dawned as he discerned the confines of a cell. Alarming was the fact that he was almost completely undressed, a peculiar circumstance given the protective charms embedded into his combat robes. In his current state, Harry found himself clad only in underwear and his mokeskin necklace.
"Good, you're awake," an unfamiliar voice greeted him with an unsettling sense of satisfaction.
"Who are you, and where the hell am I?" Harry demanded, anger coursing through him.
"CRUCIO!" The voice roared in irritation, unleashing the agony of the Cruciatus Curse upon Harry. The familiar sensation of hot needles penetrated every nerve in his body, inducing excruciating pain. Writhing on the stone floor, Harry's screams echoed within the cold, unforgiving walls of Azkaban Prison, where shadows concealed not only the secrets of the fortress but also the fate of the once-unyielding Reaper, now ensnared in the clutches of darkness.
"Manners, Potter. I am Augustus Rookwood," the man introduced himself with an unsettling calmness.
"Why am I here?" Harry asked, his voice trembling.
"I'm glad you asked. You see, the raid Spectre Seven was involved in tonight was part of a plan my associates and I have been engineering for the past six months," Rookwood explained.
"So, you're not planning on going back in time?" Harry inquired, sitting up and leaning against the cell wall with uncertainty.
"No. It would be too dangerous since there is already another version of me in that time period. I suppose I could have sent one of the junior members, but you killed them all. No, Mr. Potter, you will be going back in time," Rookwood revealed cheerfully.
"The raid was a trap," Harry said with a scowl, noting the shiny silver bracelets encasing his wrists.
"Yes, Spectre Seven was in its infancy when I was apprehended back in '82, but I knew the ministry would be using them after the Dark Lord fell this time. I knew if I made enough ruckus, the ministry would send them after me, but even I was surprised when I discovered you," Rookwood explained happily.
"Where are we?" Harry asked once again.
"Azkaban Island, cell H.S Twelve, Bellatrix Lestrange's old cell. That's where I'm sending you. Those bracelets will make sure you cannot use your magic, and they will also ensure that the guards will feed you but not ask any questions as to why you're there," Rookwood clarified with a smirk.
In the cold and damp confines of Azkaban, the web of manipulation tightened around Harry, sealing his fate in the very cell once occupied by the notorious Bellatrix Lestrange. The shadows of Azkaban whispered of secrets and schemes, and the journey that awaited the once indomitable Reaper seemed destined to unfold within the dark corridors of time and treachery.
"Why not just kill me?" Harry questioned, attempting to decipher Rookwood's motives.
"Simple. You will end up impregnating Bellatrix Lestrange, and her child will be adopted by Lucius Malfoy. The Dark Lord will control the two wealthiest houses in the wizarding world when he rises again," Rookwood explained, his tone carrying a hint of madness.
"You're insane! I wouldn't touch her with your...," Harry began to retort, but before he could finish, Rookwood roared, unleashing the Cruciatus Curse upon him.
"What did I say about manners? I have been listening to those uncouth Death Eaters talk like a bunch of savages for decades. Is it so much to ask for polite conversation?" Rookwood chastised, his mannerism oddly reminiscent of Percy Weasley.
"You are the company you keep," Harry retorted from the floor, having fallen over during the assault.
"I will be sending you back to March of '82. You won't be disturbed until January of '96. I have a feeling you'll be killed when the Dark Lord liberates the prison. Consider this payback for murdering my master," Rookwood announced with an evil smile.
"There is already another version of me in that time," Harry pointed out, attempting to assert a flaw in Rookwood's plan. The air in the cell crackled with tension as the manipulative game unfolded, entwining Harry further in the web of destiny and revenge. The shadows of Azkaban whispered secrets, and the echoes of dark laughter lingered in the cold, unforgiving corridors of the island prison.
"Yes, I wouldn't worry about that. It's very unlikely you will run into one another. That's where the danger of time travel comes into play," Rookwood explained.
"Oh," Harry said, a memory surfacing of Hermione mentioning something similar over a decade ago.
"Yes, now this has been fun, but you have a trip to make. Be sure to think happy thoughts," Rookwood said, producing the time orb with a silk glove and waving his wand over the runes.
"Wait, what happened to my team?" Harry asked frantically.
"All dead. To be honest, if I hadn't taken your hood off, you would be too," Rookwood disclosed as he dropped the orb on Harry's prone form.
Harry felt the jerk behind his navel, akin to a portkey activating, and then everything went black. The shadows of Azkaban held their secrets, and Harry, now a pawn in the twisted game of time and vengeance, embarked on a journey through the unknown corridors of the past.
Bellatrix sat on her rack, her gaze fixed on the desolate wall in front of her. Rudy's ill-fated plan had led them into the clutches of these soul-sucking monsters, leaving them at the mercy of Azkaban's oppressive confines. The human guards were conducting an inspection, granting her a brief respite from the relentless torment.
In just three days, she had never felt so wretched. The plan, devised by Rudy, had been straightforward: Barty would navigate them through the wards, being related to Augusta on his mother's side. Rab would keep watch, while she and Rudy interrogated the Longbottoms. The original intention was to use veritaserum, but her inept husband had failed to acquire any. Rudy, in his misguided confidence, suggested employing the Cruciatus Curse, believing it would easily extract the desired information. Yet, the plan had gone awry, and now they languished in the heart of Azkaban.
Her contemplations were abruptly disrupted by a blinding flash of blue light that illuminated her cell. As the radiance subsided, Bellatrix discerned a figure lying on the floor at her feet. Blinking a few times, she realized it was a man, clad only in a pair of Y-fronts.
"Ow," the man groaned weakly before succumbing to unconsciousness. The arrival of this enigmatic stranger heralded a new and uncertain chapter within the cold, stone walls of Azkaban.
Bellatrix tentatively prodded him with the tips of her barefoot, observing the lack of response from the mysterious figure before her. The room was frigid, the cold floor contrasting sharply with the warmth emanating from his body. Her gaze lingered appreciatively over his sculpted stomach and chest, and her discerning eyes caught sight of a tattoo on his left breast—a distinct mark that seemed to scream Grindelwald.
As her toes grazed his stomach, she couldn't help but marvel at his physical prowess. The contrast between the warmth beneath her feet and the icy surroundings was palpable, prompting her to shift both feet onto his abdomen. The sensation of his rock-hard abs under the soles of her feet sent a shiver down her spine, thawing the chill in the room.
Despite her borderline psychotic tendencies, Bellatrix couldn't deny the allure of his semi-nude form. She privately acknowledged that her own husband, with his pasty and flabby physique, paled in comparison. This enigmatic stranger, lying half-undressed before her, exuded a magnetic appeal that she found impossible to ignore.
"Where did you emerge from?" Bellatrix inquired, fully aware that he was unlikely to provide any answers. The silence lingered, and she couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that this encounter held more significance than she initially perceived. The air crackled with anticipation, and the room, once frigid, now seemed charged with an unspoken energy.
In the recesses of her mind, Bellatrix entertained the notion that this peculiar encounter might be a reward bestowed upon her for unwavering service to the dark lord. A sense of entitlement and satisfaction swept over her as she rose from her cot, determined to make the most of this unexpected gift.
With an eerie grace, she embarked on the task of maneuvering the unconscious man onto her own cot. Each movement was deliberate, as if she were orchestrating a ritualistic dance. The room, once a mere chamber, now bore witness to a clandestine performance—one that seemed to transcend the mundane and step into the realm of the mystical.
As she laid him on her cot, the contrast between the cold, unforgiving environment and the warmth emanating from his unconscious form struck her once again. It was as though his very presence had breathed life into the austere surroundings, casting an enigmatic aura that enveloped them both.
Bellatrix couldn't help but marvel at the sense of power and control she felt in that moment. The unconscious man, a symbol of mystery and potential, lay vulnerable on her cot. In the dim light, she studied his features, searching for clues that might unravel the enigma surrounding him. The tattoo on his chest, the mark of Grindelwald, hinted at a connection to darker forces, deepening the intrigue.
A sly smile played on Bellatrix's lips as she contemplated the possibilities that lay ahead. This encounter, she surmised, was not a mere happenstance; it was a reward, a twist of fate that beckoned her to unravel the secrets veiled within the unconscious stranger.
Having successfully relocated her unexpected guest to her cot, Bellatrix found herself pleasantly surprised at the warmth he provided during the chilly nighttime hours. The mystery surrounding his identity lingered, but his presence seemed to serve as an effective deterrent against the encroaching chill and the haunting whispers of dementors that had previously plagued her.
As the night draped its shadows over the room, Bellatrix reclined on her cot, resting against her newfound source of warmth. With her head nestled on his chest, she prepared to surrender herself to the embrace of sleep. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest served as a lullaby, drowning out the desolation that permeated the prison walls.
Unexpectedly, her makeshift pillow stirred beneath her. A low groan escaped his lips, accompanied by the stretch of his arms over his head. Bellatrix's eyes widened with intrigue as the man began to stir.
"Where am I?" he groaned, disoriented and confused.
"Azkaban prison," she replied, her voice carrying a note of curiosity, eager to witness his reaction to the revelation.
Harry's eyes snapped open at the sound of the familiar voice, and the memories of his recent conversation with Rookwood flooded back to him. The realization hit him like a jolt, and he surveyed his surroundings with a mix of confusion and apprehension. Azkaban, the notorious fortress of despair, loomed over him, and the gravity of the situation settled upon him like a heavy cloak.
"Son of a bitch, he actually did it," Harry muttered under his breath, a wave of overwhelming emotions washing over him as he grappled with the reality of his predicament. The weight of the situation bore down on him, leaving him with a profound sense of despair.
"Who did what?" Bellatrix inquired, her curiosity piqued by the evident distress in his voice.
"Never mind," Harry bit out, a bitter taste lingering in his words. "The bottom line is I'm locked down on the Death Eater wing."
A furrow formed on Bellatrix's brow as she demanded, "Who are you?" Irritation laced her tone, fueled by a growing impatience.
"Doesn't matter," Harry replied, his expression hardened as he sat up, causing Bellatrix to slide off onto the cold floor.
Undeterred, Bellatrix quickly regained her footing, her temper now replaced by a determined resolve. She forcefully shoved the man, who had just managed to rise shakily to his feet, back onto the bed.
"You are not going anywhere. Now, who the hell are you?" she demanded, her voice sharp and commanding.
"I can't tell you that, and even if I could, I know exactly who you are," Harry retorted, frustration and anger coloring his words. The air in the room crackled with tension as the two found themselves entangled in a web of secrecy and conflicting interests.
"You're one to talk, you bear Grindelwald's mark," Bellatrix retorted, prodding the insignia with her finger.
"That is not Grindelwald's mark, you twit. It's the Peverell family crest," Harry responded with irritation, his patience wearing thin.
"Don't call me a twit!" Bellatrix shrieked, her frustration reaching a boiling point. In an impulsive surge, she tackled him, causing his head to bounce off the unforgiving stone wall of the cell.
"Ow," Harry groaned, the impact leaving him disoriented. He slid sideways, toppling off the cot with Bellatrix tumbling along, both landing unceremoniously on the cold floor.
"I want answers. Why did you appear in my cell? Why are you so weak? And who the hell are you?" Bellatrix demanded, asserting her dominance as she pinned him to the floor.
"I was sent here. I don't know why," Harry admitted when he realized his feeble state prevented him from pushing her away. A realization flickered in his mind that this encounter might be connected to something far beyond his comprehension.
Observing Bellatrix closely, he couldn't ignore the uncanny resemblance she bore to the woman in the Pensieve memory from his fourth year. This couldn't be long after that trial—the pieces of the puzzle were slowly falling into place.
"So who are you?" she pressed, her intensity unyielding.
"Harry James Potter," he answered wearily, surrendering the truth in the face of her relentless inquiries.
"Impossible! Harry Potter is a toddler, supposedly responsible for the death of my master," Bellatrix screeched, her disbelief echoing through the cramped cell. Without warning, she delivered a resounding smack across his face, a physical manifestation of her refusal to accept his claim.
"Listen, you crazy... witch," Harry seethed, anger radiating from him. "I am Harry James Potter, and I am responsible for killing that noseless... individual twice."
To Harry's surprise, instead of escalating, his bold statement seemed to calm Bellatrix. She regarded him with a deadly seriousness, her eyes probing for any hint of deception. "If you're who you say you are, then why wouldn't the wizarding world hail you as the next Dumbledore?" she inquired, her tone laden with skepticism.
"One of your lot sent me here," Harry replied, a weariness settling over him once more.
"Why did they send you to my cell?" Bellatrix demanded, her curiosity fueled by a relentless determination.
"I don't know," Harry lied, the weight of his own uncertainty pressing down on him.
Bellatrix, undeterred, locked eyes with him, and Harry felt an invasive presence probing his mind. Despite his attempts to resist, his Occlumency shields faltered, leaving him vulnerable. It was then that Harry realized the source of his profound weakness—magical exhaustion from the time orb.
As the truth became clear, a heavy weariness settled over him, and he succumbed to the pull of sleep, leaving the mysteries of his arrival in Azkaban unanswered for the time being.
A massive headache surged through Harry as Bellatrix delved into the recesses of his mind, and despite his attempts to resist, he found himself powerless to keep her out. The intrusion was relentless, each probing thought causing his temples to throb with increasing intensity.
Bellatrix, on the other hand, was stunned by the revelations within this man's mind. He wasn't just some random prisoner; he was an Unspeakable, harboring knowledge about the dark lord that surpassed her expectations. The depth of his magical prowess unfolded before her, painting a picture of a wizard far more formidable than she had initially assumed.
In the vivid tapestry of memories, Bellatrix witnessed the events that shaped Harry's life—his challenging childhood, his tumultuous years at Hogwarts, and, most notably, his relentless victories over her master. She saw him strike down the dark lord time and again, each encounter fueling her own frustration and despair.
As Bellatrix delved deeper, the scenes shifted to a meeting with a much older Augustus Rookwood. The revelation hit her like a tidal wave—Rookwood, the cunning traitor, had orchestrated this twisted plan to send Harry to Azkaban, with the sinister motive of using Bellatrix and her unborn child.
Finally, overwhelmed by the revelations, Bellatrix withdrew from Harry's mind, her expression flabbergasted. The weight of the newfound knowledge settled on her shoulders as she looked down at the man, only to realize that he had succumbed to unconsciousness, likely from the intense mental exertion. The cell, once filled with tension, now hung heavy with the unspoken implications of the tangled fate that bound them together.
Slowly, Harry drifted back into consciousness, the haze of confusion lingering. Despite the passing time, he still felt unnaturally weak, a sensation that defied his usual resilience. Attempting to move, he encountered a warm weight pressing against him, trapping him on the prison cot. The feeble state of his body left him unable to muster the strength to disentangle himself.
The realization struck him—those bracelets on his wrists were the culprit. They weren't just restraining him; they were actively suppressing his magic, impeding his recovery. In the dim light filtering through the tiny window, Harry raised his free arm and inspected the bracelets. Recognition dawned upon him; these were specifically crafted for Unspeakable prisoners.
These particular restraints hadn't seen use in over three decades. Crafted with precision, they were designed for high-risk prisoners, allowing Unspeakables to place them in Azkaban without raising suspicion from the guards. The ancient nature of these magical bonds explained the profound weakness Harry felt, and he pondered the implications of being ensnared by such archaic enchantments. The reality of his situation hung in the air, and Harry braced himself for the challenges that lay ahead, knowing that escaping the clutches of these enchanted bracelets would be no small feat.
The realization hit Harry with a sense of frustration. The only way to remove the enchanted bracelets was for Bellatrix, the one who had placed them on him, to unlock them.
"Fuck!" Harry exclaimed, his anger reverberating in the cramped cell.
"Not until I wake up," Bellatrix mumbled, her voice barely audible as she nestled into his chest.
As Harry grappled with the surreal nature of his predicament, he couldn't help but think, 'This has got to be the most fucked-up situation I have ever gotten myself into.'
His musings were abruptly interrupted when he felt a sensation brushing across his manhood. A shiver ran down his spine as he realized it was a feminine hand.
"Why are you sleeping on me?" Harry asked, attempting to squirm away but finding himself met with the unyielding wall behind him.
"Because you're warm, and this place is freezing," Bellatrix mumbled, her eyes squinting at him as she opened them, her hand continuing its exploratory journey.
"Why are you touching me?" Harry demanded, his patience wearing thin as her fingers brushed against him once more.
"Because you're my new pet," Bellatrix declared, her tone oddly reminiscent of a spoiled child.
"Well, stop," Harry demanded, attempting to assert some control over the bizarre dynamics of their situation. The cell, already laden with tension, now seemed to pulse with an unpredictable energy as Harry grappled with both the physical and magical restraints confining him.
"Why is it getting bigger when I tickle it?" Bellatrix remarked casually but removed her hand nonetheless.
Harry breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for the reprieve from the unsettling encounter. The weight of the situation pressed on him, and he couldn't shake the feeling of discomfort and violation that lingered from Bellatrix's previous actions while he was unconscious.
"So, the Dark Lord rises again," Bellatrix interjected, breaking into Harry's thoughts.
"Yes, and falls," Harry replied, recognizing that she had witnessed the entirety of his tumultuous history in the recent nights.
"What happened to me?" Bellatrix demanded, her curiosity tinged with a hint of concern.
"You were killed by a housewife," Harry responded matter-of-factly, revealing the unceremonious end to her life.
"And my sisters?" Bellatrix inquired, her tone now carrying a genuine note of concern.
"Narcissa saved my life. In return, I gave her the Black property in southern France. The last I heard, she was lounging on the beach and spending through the Black family gold," Harry explained with a nonchalant shrug, providing an unexpected twist to the fate of Bellatrix's sisters. The intricacies of their conversation highlighted the surreal nature of their circumstances, as if the threads of destiny had woven an unexpected tapestry bringing them together in the most unlikely of places.
"And what of Andromeda?" She inquired with persistence, her eyes probing for the depths of Harry's emotions.
Harry sighed, the weight of the past evident in his eyes. "She endured great losses—her husband and daughter in the throes of war. The last I heard, she was steadfastly raising my godson."
A glimmer of hope flickered in Bellatrix's eyes. "So they both survived the war?"
"Yes," Harry replied somberly. "Survival, however, did not shield them from the hardships that followed."
Bellatrix, after a moment of contemplation, spoke again. "I am relieved they made it through. And now, Harry, I've made a decision. I'm willing to assist you, provided you reciprocate by aiding me with a certain matter."
Harry arched an eyebrow. "How can I help you?"
Bellatrix leaned in, her voice a mere whisper, "I want those magical suppressors off of you."
Harry's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "And how do you propose we achieve that? Only Rookwood can remove them. Well, technically, I only need some of his blood, and I can do the rest."
A sly smile played on Bellatrix's lips. "Rookwood is somewhere on this wing; I saw him when they brought me in a few days ago."
As the conversation unfolded, the atmosphere in the room became charged with a blend of tension and intrigue. Harry's mind whirred with thoughts of the potential consequences of joining forces with Bellatrix, while she maintained an air of mystery that hinted at a complex web of motivations. The dialogue between them became a dance of words, each sentence revealing a layer of the intricate plot that was beginning to weave its way through the narrative.
Harry eyed Bellatrix warily, a cautious skepticism in his gaze. "What do you want me to help you with?"
Bellatrix's expression turned serious, her eyes locking onto Harry's. "I want you to kill Rudolphus and Rabastan."
"Why?" Harry asked, genuine surprise etched on his face.
"Because Rudy was the one who dragged us to the Longbottoms. He's the reason we ended up torturing them, and it was his madness that landed me in this frigid hell hole!" Bellatrix hissed, her anger palpable.
Harry recoiled, a look of disgust on his face. "Bullshit. I know for a fact you tortured Alice and Frank Longbottom."
Bellatrix's eyes narrowed, irritation evident in her voice. "Yes, I tortured them, but even I know when to quit."
Harry contemplated her words, weighing the morality of the situation. After a moment, he relented. "Alright, if you can get me a vial of Rookwood's blood, I will kill the Lestrange brothers."
A twisted smile curled on Bellatrix's lips. "We have a deal then."
"When can you get me his blood?" Harry asked eagerly, a spark of anticipation in his eyes.
"Summer solstice, the Ministry allows all the inmates outside for one hour two days a year—on the summer and winter solstices," Bellatrix explained, her eyes reflecting the distant memory of freedom.
"Damn, that's three months away," Harry muttered, his hope momentarily deflated.
"It's the best you've got," Bellatrix replied with a nonchalant shrug.
Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Right, I guess that will give my core time to recharge. The bracelets are slowing down my recovery time."
"Exactly," Bellatrix affirmed, her gaze fixed on the constraints that bound Harry's magic. She rose from her seat, gesturing for him to turn his head. "Now, excuse me, I have to use the loo."
As Bellatrix headed to the small toilet set into the wall on the other side of the cell, Harry's mind churned with thoughts about the deal he had just struck. He understood the volatile nature of their arrangement, aware that it could all blow up in his face. Yet, in the confines of Azkaban, where time seemed to stretch endlessly, he found himself in a position where he had little left to lose. The seconds ticked away, and Harry contemplated the intricate web of alliances and promises that had now entangled him within the dark tapestry of the prison walls.
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