To the untrained eyes of the terrified convict, or equally terrified passing visitor, Azkaban as a bleak and unforgiving monolith of death and terror. This, while being quite true, remains woefully sparse. A philanthropist dark wizard would be delighted to discuss the rich and specialised fauna and flora thriving on the ten foot worth of bare, hard rock sprawling from the foot of the tower to the sea that technically speaking, could be referred as 'Azkaban island'. It consists mostly in dark mosses, dark fungus, and dark birds (the dark side refutes the existence of dark molluscs).

A vast colony of Augurey had taken to nest in the crooks of the tall walls, crowing in their mournful way at all hours. Most interesting, among all the washed-up refuses of the magical world that ended up thriving on Azkaban island of all places, was a discreet specie of small, black snakes. This is where you fetch your closest dark wizard philanthropist, for these little beauties are not your everyday magical snake. These inconspicuous inhabitants are, in fact, mardröm, and through extinct by the magical world at large for now a few hundreds of years. The sneaky little devils had found in Azkaban a heaven of sort, feed on the occasional auspicious egg, and the nightmares of men. The little colony lived peaceful and undisturbed under the jagged, sea-weathered black stones as the only philanthropist black wizard that walked the area were never given a real chance at exploring before being locked up for their sins -aka curiosity-.

Now, one such madröm was currently making his skilful way toward a poorly positioned Augurey nest, where promise of dinner lay in wait. The birds usually nested high enough to discourage the adventurous little snakes, but this one was close to the base of the tower, in the crook of a light pit. Light pits were handy to madröm, for they led directly inside the towers to the humans, were they could discreetly slither to nibble on their tormented sleep. As he slithered closer to the nest, and therefore the opening, a sibilant whimper caught his attention.

He tasted the air curiously, and his dinner briefly forgotten, followed the strange whisper.

Harry was not spiralling into madness. Spiralling refers to a somewhat fast, but gradual slip of control.

Nothing had been remotely gradual about Harry's current state.

The cold, dead eyes he had woken up to had looked like Cedric's, unseeing and unforgiving. Their stillness was seared onto his retina, and wherever he looked there was the vacant and accusatory cadaver. In shock, he had been in shock. Nothing made sense. He'd been restrained, manhandled. People had come and gone.

Everything had been muted and toned down, like his head was underwater.

He'd been thrown in a pitch-black cell.

A flicker of survival instinct had registered cold closing up on him as the tell-tale glow of a patronus walked away from him, leaving him to the mercy of Azkaban. A shot of adrenaline had blazed his brain to wakefulness.

There were cackles and jeers, the cell he had been thrown in was matted with salted grim.

The sea sounded much, much closer.

Long, desiccated arms reached through the cell's bars, grabbing for his neck, for his cloths in a hungry, desperate manner. He flung himself backwards, crawling out of reach, until his back collided with the tower's wall.

But the ever-hungry maws of the pit did not need to touch him to feed on him.

And Harry had been offered to them.

With every new cry and sob that was wrenched from his withering soul, he could feel the raw texture of his throat, and taste blood on his tong.

He could hear an echo of himself, resounding against the sea.

But he could not, find himself.

The scenes in front of his eyes kept changing, whirling like shredded clothes in the building winds of an oncoming storm. Cedric dying, his mother dying … Sirius… did Sirius die? He could not remember, could not remember if he failed Sirius like he failed Cedric like he failed Ginny … Ginny, cold on the Chamber's floor, so pale. He failed to grasp the fraying edges of his memories like water between his fingers. He wanted to act, to move his unresponsive limbs and fight, but every time the scene would unfold in its uncanny horror and he would be powerless to help it. He was feeling cold. Every trickling second carving out another piece of him, hollowing him in the semblance of the dark shadows that swept the corner of his vision. He wanted to let go, to let himself be consumed and stop his pointless struggle.

On the edge of his mind, he could almost guess colour, something reaching out from his soul to remind him why at some point, fighting to stay alive had been important. But every time he tried to glance at the shimmering and elusive feeling, it was overwhelmed and drowned, twisted and driven back into him like a vile, crooked knife.

Sometimes it felt like his mind blacked out, and then the nightmares would shift.

He would slither and crawl on smooth black stone, heading with a determined purpose. In those occasion Harry would gratefully coil in the simple recess of this foreign determination, letting himself be carried.

Grateful for the respite.

Rarely, he would witness other scenes. Shifting, muddles environments. People coming and going. He felt very little concern, for he knew he was protected. He was precious and cherished and no one would dare raise a hand against his master's favoured companion.

'Does he ever shut up?' A gruffy voice spat from the recess of one cell.

The boy had been screaming for hours, going on in a raw, guttural fashion even after his voice had broken. And now that he had at least stopped, a restless, rasp murmuring was coming from his cell. It broke the quiet, muffled blanket of anguish that had wrapped around the resident death eaters for years, disturbed only by the occasional sob or whimper or quiet whispered conversation. Or the occasional auror round, looking to see wherever one of them had decided to give yet and die.

Crouch Jr. had provided quite the excitement when he'd been thrown back in his old cell, a few months ago. The jeers and taunt of the others at being caught a second time had been quickly subjugated by his tale of their Lord resurrection. And of Potter's fate. It had raised an ugly hope in the heart of the Dark Lord's ten most faithful, and set a fire burning in the old festering amber of their devotion.

And then Potter had been thrown down the pit.

The wizarding word saviour, the vanquisher of the Dark Lord, the Boy-who-lived.

Little Barty had been telling the truth. Their collective heart soared and began to crave. Their master would come for them soon. Soon, they would be free again. Their magic would be unleashed at last, and the wizarding world would pay for their sufferings.

'No, he doesn't.' Barty murmured in answer. He didn't know what grated on his nerves more, the yelling of the child, or the cackling from Bellatrix that would join him at his worse.

'You would know, right?' Another, rich voice called. Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange were in the two cells that faced his own, and were looking at him with their back to each other, split only by a length of wall.

He nodded. Resisting cursing the boy to death on an impulse every time he opened his mouth had been a real trial during his time as Moody. But his master had needed him. And the payoff had been worth every one of his petty frustrations.

'You have no idea how I would have liked to tear those screams out of him back there…' He murmured.

'Shut up, Barty.' A voice snapped like a whip, attentive. The sharp order had come from his left, from the cell occupied by Avery. The Lestrange brothers peeked curiously, and Crouch could only observe them to try and get an idea of what was happening.

'What is it?' Rodolphus asked gruffly.

There was a pregnant, attentive pause, the silence only broken by the echoes of the ever-blowing winds battering the fortress, and the sibilant whispering slithering from Harry's cell.

Rabastan eyes widened slightly in disbelief.

'You don't think… This sounds like…'

A shriek echoed from Bellatrix's cell.

'Filthy scum!' She called from the far end of the corridor, 'how dare he! Unworthy little bastard imitating…'

'Bellatrix SHUT UP!' Avery bellowed, his voice rasp from disuse.

The mad woman descended into a fit a giggle, the sudden excitement distracting her momently from the object of her ire. She started humming softly, dragging herself closer to the bars to get a better view of the action.

'If this isn't parseltongue...' Avery stated after a short, attentive pause, 'then it's a disturbingly fine imitation.'

'There was a rumour,' Barty answered his face pressed to the bars, 'in Hogwarts, that Potter could commend snake. But all I could get was incoherent babbling of how he'd set a snake on another student.'

'He can't be a parseltongue. Our Master is the last of Slytherin's line. The Potter never came close to be mixed to Slytherin's line and his mother was a mudblood.' Rodolphus commented.

'Or perhaps,' a thoughtful voice answered from the cell facing Harry's, 'there is something more complicated than blood at play here.'

'What do you mean, Rookwood?' Avery asked.

Avery had always respected Rookwood. The man was intelligent, enough to be made an Unspeakable. And shrewd enough to deceive and spy on them for their Lord. He would have stayed in position if Karkaroff had not ratted him to the ministry.

His insight was usually sharp.

'I don't know. Yet.' The man answered thoughtfully. 'But we'd better keep a close eye on Mr Potter here. He could prove… Valuable.'

The little mardröm felt inexplicably fond of his new human. He was younger than the other humans, and his nightmares tasted delicious. Knowing he would grow powerful on them, and the snakes coiled contentedly in the warmth of the dazed boy.

At some point the blank eyes of the human had fell on him, and a shaking hand had moved to pet his smooth body. A weak, lulling hiss had passed the speaker's lips. Soot had decided he liked this human and had started to whisper sweet nonsenses back to him. To comfort the little human.

He had been basking in his human nightmares and warmth when a harsh clanking sound of metal echoed in the bowel of the fortress. Heavy boots hit the silent stones, coming closer. Soot hissed angrily as a harsh, corrosive light washed upon the cell and he hid quickly in the darkness of his human.

The cell door was thrown open.

'Oh Merlin, Harry…'

Tonks could not quite believe the state she found Harry Potter in. It had been a couple weeks already that he had been affected to a high security cell. Of course, she had known he would look terrible, but it was by far worse than she would have expected. His eyes were sunken and unseeing. He looked terribly thin, like he had not taken a bit since he had been thrown down there. Which must be the case, since his rations of chocolate were piled by the door, untouched.

He was awake, but he had not even reacted to the warm glow of the patronus.

She moved to touch his shoulder, to give him a comforting gesture. To promise it was going to be okay, that they were working on having him out of here…

There was a tapping noise coming from behind her.

'Auror Tonks.' A strict, harsh voice pronounced carefully. 'You have no right to patrol down the pit.'

The voice belonged to a young, but already greying auror with sharp, hard eyes.

'I was looking for auror…' She started, before stammering, trying furiously to remember who was supposedly on pit duty. The man gave her a disgusted look.

'Get out of my sight,' he said in a grim fashion. As she hesitated, he snapped 'Right. Now. Before I change my mind about filling the paperwork to report your slip.'

She let Harry sprawled on the floor of his cell and swept past the man. If she got reported, she would be removed from Azkaban. They could not afford it. It stung her heart to leave the kid behind in such a state, but there was no other way.

Dumbledore needed to be told.

He had thought Tonks behaviour suspicious from the beginning. He had kept a sharp eye on her since That Day. The thought was enough to have his patronus flicker, and he took a deep breath. He had not intended to go down there for a few more days…

'Look at you, a murderer, a filth,' the auror spat, toeing the face of the teenager with the tip of his boot with a disgusted rictus, 'and still people flounder to your feet. To your rescue.' He spat on the boy's face.

The absence of reaction flickered his rage.

He made to grab the boy by the neck, to pin him down without a clear agenda, but yelped and jumped backward as pain flared in his hand.

Two little beads of blood were welling, and a snake was hissing angrily, coiled around the teenager's neck. Cursing, the man sent a stinging hex that sent the snake flying and roused the boy from his sluggish daze. He aimed at the snake once more.

'Incendio!' He cast.

'No!'

The curse missed, and the snake took refuge behind the dark haired boy, who was know looking up to him with wide, frightful, and pleading eyes. He looked lost, innocent.

'Please don't hurt him, don't hurt him.' He rasped painfully, shaking hands raised in a pitiful plea.

The boy had no right to look so innocent.

'How dare you… You filthy little bastard.' He sneered in rage.

Not after what he'd done to her.

He sneered, and deep down his magic knew how to provide relief to his pain. The word tasted almost sweets as they fell from his lips.

'Crucio.'

And the sight of the withering form of his fiancé murderer was all the sweeter.