"When everyone believes ya
What's that like?"

- Taylor Swift

The wind was licking her face, sand whipping her cheeks, seeping in every hole, her ears, her nose, the collar of her shirt. She shivered, the air cooler with each step, her clothes sticking to her skin, wet from the sea water.

"You'll get dry clothes soon darling" had said the old captain who had rowed her to the shore, once he had hoisted her back onboard, after she had fallen off the boat. She had wondered, when she had caught sight of his cautious glance, if he asked himself what a young lady like her must have done to come to be sent to such a place. A question that haunted her, for she did not know the answer herself.

The cliff was steep, a slope like she had rarely seen, only hill, rough and ragged. She wished to turn around, for she was not sure that she would make it, and she peeked over her shoulder to find the man standing near the boat. He waved at her, gesturing as if to encourage her to go on, so she turned around and her wobbly legs carried her on the first rock. With great caution, she hauled herself to the second, and the third.

There, she found a trail, marked by a row of sea oats. She took a few steps and stepped on a clod, but the earth gave in under her foot, and Annabel lost her balance. She tried to steady herself but she was too weak, too tired, and she slipped, falling a good three feet down until her knees met the rock below. She cursed, her eyes tearing from the sting, and she glanced at her wrecked skirt, at her palms where blood was pearling in the crook of her hands. Carefully, she tried to wipe the sand but a single touch caused her wounds to sear. She grimaced, her jaw clenching from the ache, and she looked up, as if to search for help. Yet, all she could see was the tower in the distance, all stones and bars, a gloomy view. She squinted as a new gust of wind blew on the island, whenshe heard a sound.

There was a rattling, a wheeze, hoarse and raspy, right next to her ear. Slowly, so very slowly, she turned her head to the side. There, in the corner of her eyes, she saw it.

A creature that floated above the ground, with a hole instead of a face.

Azkaban's infamous guardians.

Run, she heard the captain scream. Run, run. Yet her legs refused to obey. With wide eyes, she stared at the Dementor, like frozen into space. It got closer, dangerously reducing the gap between them, before she felt a pull on her arm. The man was standing next to her, issuing her to flee.

Her survival instinct finally kicked in.

She picked herself up and ran like she had never ran before.

—

"They let them drown, you know?"

Facing the mirror, he peeked at the blond man who was waiting behind him. He noticed the crease on his forehead, his hands that gripped the back of the chair.

"When they fall off the boat"

He looked back at his own reflection, ran a hair through his dark locks. With deft and assured gestures, he finished buttoning up his shirt, his fingers moving from one slit to the next. He fastened each sleeve, rose the collar of his shirt to drape a tie around his neck. He crossed the fabric, made a knot. He darted another look in the mirror as he tightened the tie, but the man behind him was looking down. Too polite - or too scared - to dare say anything.

Alastair had come as soon as he had learned, he had said, turning up at his house just an hour ago while he was still soaking in the tub. Eyes closed, an empty glass that lay nearby, Tom was grateful for the diversion his friend's presence provided. He was desperate for a distraction, something to divert his thoughts, for Annabel was everywhere, like a butterfly that had spread its dust in each corner, traces of her in all places. Her presence was more ubiquitous than ever, and it was precisely that that made it all worse: his own inability to think of anything else. Annabel on the craft, Annabel on shore, Annabel behind the bars of that damn bare cell. He had tried sports and drinks, but the respite had been short-lived, the thoughts of her always coming back, all the more harrowing. And after another horrid night of Tom waking up each time he tried to reach for her next to him, Alastair's appearance had seemed like a blessing.

Finally someone who offered some recreation.

More importantly, someone with whom he could gauge the effectiveness of his plan… Because those sleepless nights would be deemed useless if his scheme did not have the intended effect. Alastair did not disappoint: the shock in his eyes, the lowered gaze. His reaction a sneak peek of the reverence to come.

There was a rattle downstairs and Tom headed towards the door. He heard the whispers, the quiet tumult in the hallway. He craned his neck on the threshold of his bedroom to find them gathered downstairs. A crowd, bigger than he had ever seen, clumped together on the other side of the balustrade.

He knew why they were here. They had come to pay tribute. As if he was a fickle god, they had come to coax and cajole him. A thrill ran up his spine at the thought of it.

Because having Annabel take the blame for the crime he had committed served more than one purpose. There was the heir, of course, but there was more than that. There was the message he was addressing to them all: that he was ready to go that far. A sacrifice that meant nothing but "try me". And that kept everybody in line. Oh, how pleasant it was to see them all gathered down there, in fear of his wrath, of his moods. The beginning of a new era. And he was was hammering it home - not him Tom Riddle, but him Voldemort, his power unrestrained - a new age, led by new guidelines, new precepts, in number of three, the holy trinity. No one was invincible. No one was irreplaceable. Nothing was to take for granted.

He thought of Annabel in fast forward, his hand in his pocket as he stood on the threshold of his room. In his palm, he weighed the Slytherin locket, that very heirloom that had caused his wife's downfall. Just like that, he remembered the first time he had paid homage to her, after she, without knowing it, had shown him how useful she would become. He was just a boy then, when he had raised his glass and cheered in her name, surrounded by his group of friends, the bunnies squeaking in the background.

He recalled Alastair's words, just a minute ago, those that he would have never dared to pronounce himself. The fear that showed through...

He noticed the man's gaunt features, the apparent anguish on his face. Was it what he would look like too, if he were to be honest with himself, if he were to indulge in those feelings he was so desperate to tame? Part of him wished he could walk towards his friend, close the gap between them both, put a hand on his shoulder. "She will be fine" he wished he could say, but he would not, he could not. For this move would be like going back. He looked at his friend instead, from the threshold of his room, which felt like a frontier, torn between two worlds, the past and the future, allowing himself to revel in the suspension of time once more.

"They won't let her drown" he declared, right before he stepped out of the room.

"I bribed the captain"

—

Annabel curled up against the wall, her arms around her knees, her face buried in the crook of her legs. The stone was cold against her shoulder, yet such contact was to her almost tender, the sole embrace she was to be accorded.

Like every day of the past two weeks, Annabel had been awaiting any sign of the outside world with great edginess. She had stared at the sky as she'd awaited the postal delivery, gripping the bars of the window so tightly her knuckles had hurt. She had run towards the door the moment she had seen the owls take a nosedive towards the island, her limbs numb from the lack of exercise. She had stood on her tiptoes as she'd peek through the crack of the door, rooted to the spot until she'd caught sight of the prison guard. She had watched the latter walk up and down the aisle while she silently prayed that she, too, would soon see an envelope slip under her door.

As always, she he had hailed the gaoler, asked if there was no letter for her. Nothing, really? Had they thoroughly checked? Was there no misplaced envelop? One stack of forgotten missives, abandoned by one careless colleague on their staffroom's table? It could be addressed to Riddle just like to Selwyn, she had urged the person to check. Yet, the guard had shaken their head at her. No letter for the poor fool. Disappointment hurt every time.

She should have known, she was beginning to think, recalling the sneers of the first day, when she had entered the tower like a shot, red-faced, her chest heaving from her high-speed-chase with the prison's devilish creature. Once inside, she had been asked to change, to put on the dull Azkaban outfit, a grey and shapeless uniform patched many times at the elbows and at the knees. As she striped, she had pointed to the set of the same threadbare clothes one gaoler had been gathering: "I won't be needing these". The governor had raised her eyebrows so high they had disappeared under her uneven fringe. "And why is that?" she had asked, to which Annabel had replied that she would not be staying in there for long. "I'm not supposed to be here" she had explained, her tone tinged with haughtiness. Someone would come pick her up soon, her husband, her father. The woman had laughed, hard. "Oh, you think? Well, lemme tell you a secret..." The women in here, they were all here because of a man. A husband, most often, a father sometimes. A brother, a teacher, a grandpa, a foreman. Men who did not have use for them any longer.

She had shrugged those words off, at first. Tom was different. Tom loved her. He would come, wouldn't he? He would come and save her.

She closed her eyes, lulled by the quiet susurration of the waves, those in which she wished she could jump and drown. She imagined herself engulfed by the tide, her body disappearing into froth, returning to Mother Earth.