Despite Albus long and extensive experience dealing with disasters, the matter of Harry Potter still felt like a heavy and guilty defeat to him. He had always suspected magic as dark as had been performed on the boy, first at a young age and then again at the end of the summer, would sooner or later reveal unforeseen and certainly dire consequences. An educated guess, from Harry's uncanny parseltongue proficiency, as well as from the tale of his nightmares that he had gathered from his two friends, had allowed him to infer some sort of connection between Harry and Voldemort. He had concluded this matter required the highest caution and prudence, and that Harry being securely held in Azkaban in the meantime would give him time to think and act for the best. The reports from auror Tonks spoke of Harry taking his captivity with resilience for one so young, and he had believed this would be for the best.

How wrong he had been.

With a heavy and grim heart, he pushed the door of his office, hoping for a couple quiet hours of reflection before the inevitable chaos that would ensue from the morning paper delivery.

On a chair by the fire, her dressing grown wrapped tightly around her, was waiting a very distraught looking Professor McGonagall.

'Albus,' she muttered, getting quickly on her feet at the sight of the bleak Headmaster.

'Minerva,' he greeted her.

She watched him slowly shedding his travelling outer robes and take his seat behind his desk. Or rather slump in there, displaying a weariness that made him look very much his old age.

'You were gone so suddenly. I didn't know what to think. I feared…'

'Something very grave has happened tonight, Minerva. Something that is besides my power to change and besides my reach to influence.'

The chimney spluttered, the flames turning from the smouldering red of glowering ambers to a deep shade of green. Nagini hissed her displeasure and moved languidly from her spot at the feet of her master where she had been pleasantly dozing in the warmth to wrap herself around his shoulders. He distractedly passed his hand on her nose and scales in a soothing motion.

He had asked her to stay close after she'd come to him a few hours prior with a most disturbing tale. About some human daring to attack her, about being moved out of the manor. The tracking charm he kept on her told him no such thing, and was remaining unbroken.

'Avery,' he whispered to the head that had suddenly appeared amongst the flames. 'I hope your intrusion is justified.'

'Master,' the man answered shakily, bowing his nose into the ashes, 'it's about Potter. I… I managed to sneak an early print of the Prophet out of the office.' The man stammered.

The head disappeared and was replaced by a hand, proffering the paper. With a raised brow at his follower rather unhelpful declaration -there was hardly a day where the Prophet was not talking of Potter one way or another-, he bent to pick up the paper that would flood the British Wizarding World in just a couple of hours. He could make Avery suffer for his discourtesy later if he judged necessary.

A glance to the cover and the man was forgiven.

'Mr Weasley, Miss Granger. Have a cup of tea.'

A prefect had roused them up rather earlier than they would have, saying them McGonagall needed a world with them. That's how the two Gryffindors found themselves in pyjamas, in their head of house office before breakfast was even due. Ron was obviously fighting dozing off, but Hermione was wide awake, a foreboding feeling twisting her guts.

'Professor,' she asked, 'why are we here?'

'Miss Granger,' and the stern professor's voice wavered, 'I fear I am the bearer of a terrible new. I thought I would have you know before… Before the other students.'

All across Britain owls landed, held their leg to deliver the paper, received their nut, and took flight again.

Mauling at the tower, the Boy-who-lived kills again!

My dear readers, it is with shock and revulsion that I take my quill to relate the events that have transpired in Azkaban just earlier tonight, involving no other than the recently turned infamous Harry James Potter and the late Miss C. Fairweather. Late, my dear reader, as in 'deceased' or more appropriately, murdered. Around one this morning, auror Fairweather was savagely mauled by inmate Harry Potter during her patrol, after he managed to trick her to step into his cell. You may remember how my previous interactions with the so called 'Boy-who-lived' had given me insight on how disturbed and dangerous the teenager was, but even I have to admit being shocked behind words by the fatal wounds he inflicted on the young and pretty auror. I won't get into gruesome details for the sake of our young readership. In short terms, her throat has been ripped off. Evidence show the teen has used his teeth, in several bites, to manage this atrocious wound. Now, auror Fairweather was engage and due to marry on the … [see page 6].

By Rita Skeeter

'Well, well. How… unexpected.' Voldemort let the paper down and caressed his beloved snake, prodding it gently out of her sleep. 'Nagini,' he hissed softly. 'Nagini, precious. I need you to recount me your little adventure once more. In details.'

It would seem the puzzle was a little more complicated than he would have thought.

His plan had been simple. Kill the figureheads, Potter and Dumbledore, as swiftly as possible, and use the ensuring chaos to rise once more. Of course, he had expected resistance to meet him at some point, and the complexity laid in the details. But the Ministry was so rip for the taking it was ridiculous, crumbling from the inside already. The light side was weak, their figurehead branded a liar and distrusted and their hero disgraced. It was just a matter for him to gather his forces and play his pieces right.

But suddenly, it looked like Potter didn't care to fit anymore. He was a jagged, broken piece that would look different depending on the angle he looked at it.

How fascinating.

Both Gryffindors had turned a sick ashen colour.

'Surely, that can't be true professor.' Hermione managed to voice through her shock. 'Harry never would do that. Harry never would… kill someone.' Her eyes tuned hard as they fell on the paper again. 'This Skeeter woman is a hag! She is lying! This must be a ploy from the Ministry to discredit Harry further!'

'Miss Granger,' McGonagall answered, her knuckles turning white from the strength with which she held her untouched cup of tea, 'I am sorry to say that, according to professor Dumbledore, the evidences leave no doubt as to what has happened. You see,' she continued, her voice cracking, 'auror cast a charm on themselves while on duty, that allows to see what has happened to them if they came to be disabled or… killed.'

'That's bullshit,' Ron blurted fiercely, 'there must have missed something. Has Dumbledore talked to Harry?'

'No, Mr Weasley, he has not…'

Ron fury burst and he sprung to his feet, pointing an accusing finger toward his professor.

'There! Something is wrong! You know Harry has been waiting for him? For weeks, since the trial? What has he been doing for Harry since he got thrown in this hellhole? What is Dumbledore DOING to get him out, professor?'

'I am sure,' she answered with tight lips, despite a glint of uncertainty in her eyes, 'that Professor Dumbledore has been doing everything that was in his power to get Mr Potter out of Azkaban.' She gave a slight pause, bracing herself. 'He has not seen Mr Potter this night, because nobody is allowed to visit Mr Potter anymore. He has been relocated, on order of the Minister, in a high security cell.'

Hermione yelped, slapping a hand across her mouth in horror. Ron blanched.

'Even Professor Dumbledore was not allowed to see him,' McGonagall finished grimly.

'Well, well, well.' A lilting, feminine voice cackled. 'What is it we have here now?' She sing-songed excitedly.

'… I can't quite believe it. Looks like little Barty has been telling the truth?' A raspy, coughing voice answered from another's cell shadow.

'SILENCE!' A high strung auror shouted at random. 'And you, get in there.'

The teen was pushed in an empty cell with so much force he was thrown to the floor and his head met the grim stone with a crack. He didn't scream then.

But when the end tail of the aurors patronii faded and the dementors gathered hungrily around their prize, then he did. He did until his throat was raw, until his voice was broken.

He did until a new, hungry blackness wrapped avidly around him.