Elizium for the Sleepless Souls

By: Voice of the Nephilim

Fandom: harry potter

Summary: The crumbling island prison of Azkaban has been evacuated, its remaining prisoners left behind. Time growing short, Harry Potter will make one final bid for freedom, enlisting an unlikely crew of allies in a daring escape, where nothing is as it seems.

Status: Completed

Fic type: Books/Harry Potter

Pairings/Main char.: Harry P.

Published: 2012-01-05

Last updated: 2014-03-07

Words count: 52,712

Chapters count: 9

Converted using www.FF2EBOOK.com
Date: 2018-11-16

1. Prologue: At the Gates of Silent Memory

Elizium for the Sleepless Souls

Prologue: At the Gates of Silent Memory

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The world was an inky void, the darkness only interrupted by his ragged breathing, which exhaled plumes of fog across cold lips, through the burlap sack clinging to his face. He was soaked to the bone, rainwater dripping from every inch of his skin, leeching the last remnants of heat from his body.

Ten fingers clamped down upon each arm, the viselike grips dragging him deeper into the chilly depths.

A door creaked open and he was unceremoniously driven into a hard wooden chair, forcing the air from his lungs. Before he could recover his senses, twin coils snaked around his wrists, binding them to the arms of the chair.

"Leave us," a sugary, girlish voice ordered. Before the echo of her words died, the burlap bag was ripped from his face, bringing the world back into focus.

"Good evening, Mister Potter," Dolores Umbridge greeted from the opposite side of a polished wooden table. A wide, inviting smile stretched across her flabby features. Upon her short, tightly curled hair perched a black bow. She had done away with the fluffy pink cardigan favored during her tenure at Hogwarts, and instead wore dark, formal robes more befitting of a Wizengamot member.

"Dolores," replied Harry, unable to keep the vitriol from his voice. His muscles tensed against the bonds, itching to leap up and wipe the self-satisfied leer from the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

"How cold you must be, Mister Potter," she continued, acting as if they were not bitter enemies. "Please, have a cuppa."

Umbridge's flabby hands wrapped around the handle of a large teapot adorned with pink floral patterns. She poured the steaming liquid into a light pink mug, before pushing it towards him.

"It'd be far easier to drink this with my hands free."

Umbridge let out a chuckle.

"Perhaps, but it would also be far easier for you to make an attempt on my life. No, Mister Potter, I'm afraid that you'll have to make do."

Harry spared the steaming mug a brief glance, before shaking his head.

"Slipping something into my drink didn't work at Hogwarts. Why bother trying again?"

"Suit yourself," Umbridge replied with a shrug, reaching over to slide the mug back to her side of the table, leaving faint marks on the polished surface. "Remember this moment, Mister Potter. That cup of tea is going to be the closest thing to warmth you'll see for quite a long time."

From the moment of his capture, Harry had known the truth of the matter, but to hear it vocalized was more demoralizing than he would have ever admitted.

"How cross you must be with me. A terrorist group to run, attacks to carry out, and yet here you are, in Azkaban. Tell me…what madness drove you back to the Ministry? As corrupt and immoral as you are, you possess a certain degree of cunning. One would have assumed that one spectacular failure would be enough."

Despite his best effort, Harry's teeth ground together. As bad as things had seemed on that night two years ago when he took five of his closest friends with him on the wings of thestrals to rescue Sirius from the Department of Mysteries, it had been a mere prelude to the horrors to come.

In the space of an hour, both Dumbledore and Sirius were dead, half of the Order of the Phoenix had been arrested, and he was a fugitive, the most wanted person in Wizarding Britain.

"Every potential success has risk attached to it," Harry replied, keeping his voice level. "You know, if I were you, I'd be more interested in why I bothered to take that risk in the first place."

A slight flush rose in her jowls, her small eyes narrowing.

"We plan on winning this war, Potter. Whether you planned on destroying the Ministry of Magic itself, or seizing an experimental weapon from the Department of Mysteries, the end result is the same: you failed."

Bile built up in the back of Harry's throat. Half of the Order had been against his plan, but he had nonetheless pushed on. The war was at an impasse, with the key players for both the Ministry and the Death Eaters hidden from sight.

Someone had to break the stalemate.

"Whatever the case may be," Umbridge continued, "the Order of the Phoenix has lost its leader. Without proper leadership, how long do you think it will take for the remnants to unravel?"

Loathe as he was to admit it, not long. There was no fiercer opponent in the field than Mad-Eye Moody, but he could not relate to non-combatants, the same of which could also be said of Minerva McGonagall.

"It's hard to say," Harry conceded. "Maybe long enough for the Ministry and the Death Eaters to take each other out first."

Umbridge let out a light chuckle.

"I think not, Mister Potter. The ranks of the Death Eaters thin with each passing day."

"And even more flock to Voldemort's call," Harry objected, leaning forward as much as his bonds would allow. "More and more wizards are concluding that bending a knee to Voldemort is kinder than living beneath the Ministry's yoke."

"That's preposterous-"

"And they have a point," he spat, cutting her off mid-sputter. "I thought it was bad when you first arrested Stan Shunpike, but that was just a taste of things to come."

"Stan Shunpike was tried and convicted of conspiring with the Death Eaters. Do you know what percentage of the wizarding population travels on the Knight Bus, Potter?"

Harry let out a derisive snort.

"If brains were Floo Powder, Shunpike wouldn't have enough to travel across the room. Voldemort would have no interest in someone that soft headed. You had to know that."

"What I know is that Stan Shunpike, to openly boast of Death Eater plans, was at the very least a Death Eater sympathizer. To support Voldemort is no better than serving him."

Harry chose not to retort. An appeal to reason had no affect upon Dolores Umbridge. Whatever policy the Ministry held, she adopted her thinking to coincide with their creed.

"High treason, Potter. That is what your group of vigilantes is guilty of, a crime equal to that of the atrocities Voldemort has wrought."

"You've lost all sense of perspective, haven't you?"

Umbridge's lips thinned at his question.

"No, Mister Potter, it is you who are delusional. The Aurors and the Hit-Wizards had their hands full fighting against the Death Eaters, having to spend time and resources defending against your Order's attacks are an intractable offense."

"They won't give up, you know," stated Harry. "Even with me gone, they'll fight against you every step of the way."

"Oh, I have no illusions of that, Mister Potter. That's why you're going to help the Ministry stop them."

Harry favored the older woman with an incredulous glare. Him, help the Ministry? There was a better chance of him besting Hagrid in an arm-wrestling match.

"You must have me confused with someone else."

"Would it be correct to assume that you haven't been reading the Daily Prophet as of late?" Umbridge asked, ignoring his comment.

"I have no interest in what that rag has to say."

"Tsk, tsk," she scolded, shaking her head. "It pays to be informed of current affairs. Had you bothered, you would have heard about the new edict upon the floor of the Wizengamot, which goes to vote next week. The Daily Prophet has been quite vocal in their support of this new measure, as the editorial section can attest to."

Alarms were blaring in his head. No, it couldn't be…

"As of next week, all enemies of the state will be under a 'kill on sight' order. A distinction your precious Order more than qualifies for, I'm afraid."

"It will never pass," Harry spat, straining against his bonds.

"Oh, I assure you, Mister Potter, the voting process is a mere formality. The support for it is universal."

Harry leaned against the back of the chair, gob smacked by the news. Order members, supporters, business partners…all of them could to detained and killed without proof, without due process. Even the shadow of suspicion would be enough to condemn them.

"So Mister Potter," continued Umbridge, gloating at his mental anguish. "How much do you value your followers? Are you content to let them throw away their lives on poorly conceived ploys? To let them be cut down in the street like cattle? Or…do you want to help your friends?"

His eyes hardened at her words. As much as it stung, if the edict passed, half of the Order and its supporters would be wiped out before they could fall back to Grimmauld Place.

Harry remained silent, deep in thought. Umbridge took his lack of reply as an invitation to continue.

"All you have to do is give us the location of the Order's headquarters. We know that you are utilizing an illegal Fidelius Charm to cloak your hideout. Break the charm, and we'll use Stun Gas to overtake the hideout. No blood needs to be spilt."

"I have no intentions of trusting the word of the Ministry," Harry spat, anger beginning to cloud his vision. "Even if you hold up your end of the bargain, would the Ministry really allow former members of the Order of the Phoenix to wander free about the country? That doesn't fit into your 'total control' motif. What would happen when they got out of Azkaban? Would the ship back sink? Would they be run over by the Knight Bus? Would they mysteriously contract Dragon Pox?"

Umbridge's mouth thinned to a frown.

"Mister Potter, I assure you-"

"No, forget it. I won't sell them out. Not for myself, and not for you."

The older woman let out a sigh of displeasure.

"I feared as much," she said, before rising to her feet. "Though I thought perhaps you might be smarter. Perhaps a few months here in Azkaban will sway your opinion, allow to you see more clearly."

"I doubt it."

A predatory smile stretched across Umbridge's face, as if she had just won some great victory.

"Time shall tell, Mister Potter. We can be very….persuasive. Nonetheless, you'll have plenty of time to consider my offer."

With a sudden sweep of her arm, she swept the teapot onto the floor. It shattered into a hundred pieces, spraying tea and miniature shards of pink masonry across the floor. No sooner had the teapot exploded, the door flew open, admitting the two silent guards that had escorted him in, wands drawn.

"Mister Potter wasn't interesting in warming himself up with tea. Please show him to our coldest room, if you would be so kind."

As they stuffed the burlap bag over his head, Harry wondered if perhaps breaking into the Ministry of Magic was a bad idea.

"He who dares, wins," he said to himself, before darkness claimed him.

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Author Notes:

This story will be eight chapters long, including the prologue and epilogue. As opposed to the epic-length chapters I usually produce, the chapters in this story will a far shorter, in the 3-6k word range. Chapter one should be up in a week or so.

Thanks to T3t, PrincessCupcake and SenseandCommon for the beta assistance.

Thanks to Master Slytherin, scaryisntit and vikingsfn for the additional guidance.

Thanks for reading.

2. I: Seasons in the Ice Cage

Elizium for the Sleepless Souls

I: Seasons in the Ice Cage

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By the scant, flickering torchlight in the corridor, the confines of his cell were barely visible. Moisture glistened on the dark stone walls, radiating the cold. Harry's teeth chattered together as he pulled his thin cloak around his shoulders.

Dreams of escape lit up his mind, as was often the case when the harsh reality of Azkaban became too much to bear.

He saw himself rise from the cold waves off the northern British coast. Emerging from the water, he would withdraw his wand and summon enough driftwood to start a raging pyre. As the fire blazed, expelling the penetrating chill from his bones, he would conjure a blanket. Unlike the poor ones provided to prisoners, it would be thick, suffocating. Ginny would be there to meet him, as they had planned. She would join him beneath the blanket, lips parted, arms reaching around him as her demure features turned upward to receive his kiss, her warm body pressing against his…

The thought slipped away, despite how hard Harry tried to hold onto it. Happiness was a mere memory, and did not linger long in this wretched place.

Escape was impossible.

The door to his cell was heavy, carved from dark ironwood set into steel brackets. A small slot lay at the bottom of the door, where his meager meals were passed through three times a day. After Sirius' escape, it had been decided that opening the door to feed the prisoners was too dangerous.

Without benefit of a wand, it would remain shut forever.

The 'window' was a joke. Through the two-foot wide aperture, crisscrossed with rusted iron bars, he beheld the violent grey waves, crashing against the side of the cliffs. Often, an icy wind blew through the orifice, cutting through his clothes like they weren't there, as if to further mock his predicament.

A deep sign escaping from his lips, Harry rose from the rock-hard cot, shambling over to the door.

"Anyone out there?" he asked, not all the hopeful. "Well, beside you, Lestrange. I've had enough of you to last several lifetimes."

"Potter, when I get out of here-"

"That's a pretty big when," Harry said, cutting her off with practiced nonchalance. "Tell me, how exactly are you going to do that?"

"The Dark Lord will come for me, Potter. I am his most faithful servant."

"Funny, Crouch Jr. said the exact same thing before a Dementor gave him a special kiss."

"Crouch renounced our Lord at the trial," hissed Bellatrix. "I never forsook him."

Harry didn't know why he had been housed in a solitary cell block, with Bellatrix Lestrange his only companion, but whoever brainstormed the idea either had a demented sense of humor, or a sadistic streak. Both, most likely.

For a moment, while Bellatrix struggled to compose a coherent reply, Harry regretted bringing up Bartemius Crouch Jr. Umbridge had not been able to crack him yet, though not from lack of trying. He could feel the desperation in the air during every interrogation, the curses getting more violent, the torture more prolonged. The inquisitors were nearing the bottom of their bag of tricks, and it was only a matter of time before the threat of the Dementor's Kiss was trotted out in order to get him to talk.

"Right," agreed Harry, forcing a chuckle. "Lot of good it did you, openly declaring for him. How long did he leave you in here? Five years? Ten? Or was it fifteen?"

"The Dark Lord sent for me as soon as he could!"

"Is that so? I guess that says it all about how high of a priority you are."

"How dare you, Potter?"

Though feet of solid stone separated his cell from the one Bellatrix occupied, the sound still traveled through the right-hand wall, causing Harry to wince.

"Well, since I can't take it out on the guards for being placed next to a psychotic bitch like you, I guess I just have to take it out on you."

"Potter, the Cruciatus is going to feel like a gentle kiss compared to what I have planned for you!"

"Won't you two shut up?" a high, unfamiliar voice shrieked. The female voice was tinged with both panic and fear. Had they received a new prisoner during the night?

"Where am I?" the girl screamed, her voice echoing down the corridor.

"Your tomb!" answered Bellatrix with a mad cackle. "Get used to it, because it's the last room you'll ever have!"

At the Death Eater's words, the young woman began to bawl her eyes out, her sobs echoing throughout the cell block.

"Hey, ignore that bitch," Harry urged, softening his tone. "Don't let her get to you."

Anguished sobbing was his only reply. Undeterred, he pressed on, trying to keep her talking.

"Hey, what's your name?"

His efforts proved fruitless, as she didn't reply to any of his other queries, a fact which only encouraged Bellatrix.

"The itty-bitty baby should cry while she can, because after the Dementors suck out your soul, you'll have no tears left to cry."

The young woman's misery seemed to have revitalized Bellatrix, strengthening her with every verbal barb rained down. Well cognizant of the futility of trying to shut the Death Eater up, he instead tuned her out, sitting back down upon his lumpy mattress, bereft of sheet. He brought his hands up, exhaling into them, before rubbing them together, trying to spread the warmth. As his hands moved, his thoughts drifted to Umbridge.

It had been a few days since her last visit. She had dropped any pretext of formality, instead opting to hold him under the Cruciatus Curse for extended bouts of time, demanding for him to cooperate. He was holding on, but just by a thread. Soon, she would step up her game. Not a matter of if, but when.

And when it did, Harry prayed he would have the strength to continue to resist.

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From the black depths of sleep Harry was summoned by being shaken. Alert at once he jumped from the uncomfortable cot, throwing off the scratchy, threadbare blanket. The ground quaked beneath his feet, unbalancing him as he landed. Dark cracks appeared in the stone flooring, branching out towards the wall.

"What the bloody hell is going?" whispered Harry as the heaving of the cell subsided. In the absence of grinding stone and masonry, the girl several cells down began to wail, followed by the Bellatrix's maniacal, gleeful laughter.

"Is this bloody rock going to sink into the sodding sea?" a sour, fourth voice asked. One that Harry could pick out anywhere.

"Dung?" Harry asked, moving closer to the door.

"Potter, s'at you?" Mundungus Fletcher asked, surprise in his voice. "Blimey, they all sai' the Ministry'd done away wi' you."

Harry had no love lost for the small, bedraggled man, whom he had never trusted after making off with Sirius' possessions, but it was nice to hear a familiar voice that didn't want to kill him.

"No, they just locked me up in here, hoping I'd betray the entire Order," he answered, shaking his head. "Why are you here?"

The housing of the prisoners grew stranger by the day. A Death Eater, the de facto leader of the Order, a girl who sounded fresh out of Hogwarts, and a small-time smuggler. It didn't make any sense.

"Well, see, wi' the 'crease in patrols 'round the main cities, I thought it'd make the coastal borders a little more accessible to an enterprisin' businessman."

"You got caught smuggling something into Britain?" Harry asked, incredulous. "Did you forgot how close of an eye the Ministry has on everything?"

"Well, lad, you 'ave t' appreciate," countered Mundungus. "I was all set up 'n ready to go, bu'…"

"But what?" Harry snapped. "Risking anything under the Ministry's nose right now is stupid and reckless, especially with the new edicts."

"Well, I ain' no part o' your Order n'more, so't don' concern you."

Umbridge's words of warning fresh in his mind, Harry shook his head.

"You're alive still, so I guess the Ministry buys it. Still, why would you even try-"

Harry cut off his sentence as the ground began to rumble beneath his feet, unsteadying him. The cracks in the floor deepened and crept towards the front of the cell, as a small section of the rear wall fell away, tumbling out into the darkness.

"Potter, wha's goin' on?" Dung asked with unease.

"Another earthquake, I guess," Harry answered, moving closer to the hole in the wall, in the left-hand corner of his cell. He lowered himself to his hands and knees, moving towards the gaping fissure where the masonry had fallen away. Harry reached towards the crumbling bricks, trying to dislodge more of them to widen the gap, but the rest of the mortar held stubbornly, thwarting his efforts.

Ignoring the cold night air wafting through, he stuck his head beyond the threshold. A light, freezing rain fell upon his exposed face, plastering his hair to his head. Paying the precipitation little heed, he looked down to discover that their cell block was perched above a large outcropping of rock, which angled inward before joining the main face of the cliff.

Was the outcropping holding up their cell block collapsing?

A cold sweat breaking out over his body, he pushed himself out further, so that his shoulders left the safety of the stone floor, dangling out over the abyss. On either side of him weathered stone bricks stretched out, forming the exterior wall of the cell block. The masonry had been eroded by the elements, pockmarked and crumbling. A few bricks had fallen into the sea, but not nearly enough for him to consider making an escape attempt. If the stone didn't crumble beneath his weight, a strong gust of wind would tear him away from the stone face just as easily.

The decision made, he retreated back into the cell, shivering violently. He pressed himself up against the opposite wall, as far away as he could get from the cold air drifting through the hole.

"So, anyone else's cell starting to fall apart?" Harry asked.

"Looks like we'll be dreaming with the fish tonight, Potter," answered Bellatrix, letting out a mad cackle.

"Guard! Guard! Guard!" screamed Harry, trying to get someone's attention. No one answered.

"I ain' seen no guards since 'ey frew me in 'ere," Dung offered. "When they feedin' us? I'm startin' a rumble…"

Harry thought back to the last time a tray had been shoved under the door, only to find he wasn't sure. Time was funny in Azkaban. It could have been a day, it could have been three.

"Eh, Potter, you don' fink 'at mayhap 'ey left us all 'hind 'cause of 'ose quakes, do you?" Dung asked, seeking reassurance.

"No, definitely not," answered Harry, prompting Bellatrix to let out a mocking laugh.

"Listen to you two idiots. There's not enough boats on this rock to transport everyone. If the island was collapsing, who do you think is going to have first priority?"

At Bellatrix's words, the other girl began to sob again, inciting Harry's rage.

"Shut the fuck up, Lestrange!" he hissed.

Bellatrix cackled at his demand.

"I'll shut up when baby Potter makes me."

Harry closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to shake the feeling that he had been transported back to primary school. He was far too valuable of a prisoner, there was no way they'd leave him behind as Azkaban crumbled.

Right?

For the first time ever, Harry found himself wanting Umbridge to make another appearance.

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"Get me out of this fucking cell!" Bellatrix screamed. All traces of psychotic good humor had fled, leaving her panic on display. Hours upon hours of staring into a hundred foot drop would do that.

Truth be told, Harry wasn't too far from that point himself.

In the past few hours, the spider web of cracked had advanced closer, covering the entire far half of the cell. It was only a matter of time before they fell away, exposing the sea.

"What's a matter, Lestrange? I thought fresh air was supposed to be good for your health?"

"Fuck you, Potter! I'm going rip off your prick, and fuck you with it while I skin you alive! I'm going to-"

"All of you shut the fuck up!" an unfamiliar voice ordered. The tone was authority personified, leaving no room for argument.

Harry rose from his crouched position, putting his face to the small window cut into the door. Through the vertical iron bars he saw a man of medium build garbed in crimson Auror robes. Short-cropped grey hair sat atop his head, in contrast to his thick salt and pepper beard.

"Our cells are falling apart, you idiot! Where the fuck have you been?"

"Is that so?" the man asked, ignoring the second part of Lestrange's question.

"Mine is too," Harry added, causing the Auror to turn his attention to him. Placed halfway between the cells, the older man moved forward, sparing a glance into Harry's cell.

"Why, it would appear so," the Auror conceded, locking gazes with Harry. He wanted to turn away from the cold grey eyes, but with conscious effort held it. His eyes were the color of steel, surrounded by yellowed corneas which betrayed the age the Auror's appearance suggested.

The older man was somewhat familiar, but nothing more than that. Not a surprise, even if he had patrolled the blocks hundreds of times, the guards rarely lingered in the damp, forgotten gloom of this cell block, their rounds always passing quickly.

"Are you going to attack me if I let you out, Potter?"

"No, I swear," promised Harry.

"See that you don't," he replied, before unlatching the door with a wave of his wand, causing it to click open.

Unable to believe his good fortune, Harry took a tentative step out of the cell, moving slow, shocked by his good fortune.

"Wow, thank you…"

"Sturges. You're welcome, Potter."

"Get me out of here!" Bellatrix screamed, followed by the low thump of her throwing her body against the door.

"You'll shut your fucking mouth, of you'll rot in there," the Sturges answered, his tone level. The Death Eater let out a final snarl of rage, before falling silent. With a satisfied nod, the Auror reached into his robes, withdrawing a pair of twin manacles, connected together in the middle by a thin chain.

"Ankles and wrists," he said, before tossing the bonds to Harry, who almost dropped the heavy bindings.

"Um, are they really necessary?" he asked.

"Look, Potter, I don't have any support on this, and there's five of you to watch. If even one of you tried to escape, things might spiral out of control."

"Wait, five?" Dung interjected, before pointing to himself. "I count a thief, a rebel leader, a psycho bitch and a girl. Who else is 'ere?"

"I see you other cellmate hasn't seen fit to introduce himself. Well, you're not exactly the talkative type, are you Dolohov?"

"Never had much to say," a cool, steady male voice answered from across the hall.

"Dolohov?" Harry hissed under his breath. The famed Death Eater, among the finest duelists in Europe, hadn't been seen in over a year. Had he been in Azkaban the entire time? If so, internal security had tightened exponentially under the new Ministry regime.

"I'll suffer no argument on this, Potter," Sturges said, interrupting his thoughts. Harry spared a glance towards the thick shackles, before reluctantly tightening the manacles over his ankles, before moving to his wrists. Not wanting to further upset the Auror, he clamped them down as far as he could, until the steel pressed against every part of his flesh.

"Good," the Auror said with a nod, before turning to Mundungus' cell.

"S'pose its my 'urn then?"

Auror Sturges nodded a single time, before unlocking the cell door.

"Remember, your best behavior," he warned, before withdrawing another set of manacles and tossing them to Mundungus. Though the short man looked terrible, his auburn hair tangled and dark, heavy bags hanging beneath his red, watery eyes, he caught the bonds with ease.

"Best get on wi' it, I s'pose," Dung said, fastening the manacles without complaint.

"Okay, you're next," Sturges stated, moving towards the girl's cell.

"I don't even know why I'm here," she pleaded, starting to cry again.

Harry's heart went out to here. In all probability, she was one of the countless witches and wizards who had been shipped off to Azkaban under false pretenses, a tactic the Ministry had adopted as of late to keep the rest of the Wizarding populace paralyzed with fear, to maintain a docile society.

"That doesn't matter to me," replied Sturges, his gaze unwavering, a third set of shackles held outward. "The only thing that matters is that you're here right now, and the only way you've leaving this place is in chains."

In the wake of a heavy silence, a slim, pale hand snaked out of the darkened threshold of the cell, before the prisoner came into view for the first time.

Even though her blonde hair was tangled and dirty, her striking beauty shone through the grime of Azkaban. She was nearly as tall as the Auror, possessed of a lithe, dancer's form, with bright blue eyes, framed by rosy cheeks with glistening tear tracks upon them.

She also looked barely old enough to graduate Hogwarts.

"It's going to be okay," encouraged Harry, his voice low, betraying nothing of the hatred for the Ministry's tyrannical rule coursing through his veins. She sent a single grateful look in his direction, before wiping an arm across her damp eyes, and putting on the shackles.

Once the manacles had clicked into place, Sturges waved his wand, conjuring a length of chain, which he melded each of the bonds connecting their wrists and ankles, trying the three of them together.

"Your turn now, Lestrange," the guard said, moving towards her cell door. "You move slowly, or I take you out. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," she cackled, as the guard flicked his wand, causing the door to swing outward. As if shot from a cannon, a long, thin projectile flew from the interior of the cell, striking Sturges in the chest. The impact drove him back, forcing a wheeze from his mouth. Bellatrix stalked forward, knocking Sturges' arm to the side, sending his Stunner into the floor. She followed up with a sharp kicked to the groin, causing Sturges to double over, a gasp of pain escaping his lips. With a shriek of triumph, she plucked the projectile from the ground with raw, bleeding fingers, and raised it in a two-handed grip above her head. Moments from bringing the metal piece from the bed frame upon the guard's head, she froze, her eyes widening.

"Y-"

Sturges took advantage of the brief hesitation, thrusting his wand forward, paying no heed to the young girl's piercing screams of horror.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The green wave of light exploded from his wand, striking Bellatrix in the chest. The mad light in her eyes extinguished, she crashed to the ground, the clang of the frame piece clasped in her frozen hands echoing throughout the cell block.

His eyes focused upon Sturges, he barely saw the white flash of fabric coming from the window of Dolohov's cell.

"Look out!"

His warning came too late, as the length of coiled blanket looped itself around Sturges' neck. It pulled taught around his throat before he could react, digging into the loose-hanging flesh. A choked gasp escaping his mouth, his eyes bulging, he tried to bring up his wand, but dropped it in the process.

"Come on!" Harry urged as the wand clattered to the floor. The girl didn't want to move, but Harry and Dung pulled her along. Being the closer of the two, Harry dove, grabbing the wand from the floor. He raised it up, aiming at the lower part of the door.

"Reducto!"

The bottom of the thick door exploded in a rain of splinters and metal fragments, peppering Sturges' legs. The locking mechanism damaged, the door swung open, knocking the Auror to the floor. Dolohov rushed from the interior, shouldering aside Harry, knocking him to the floor. He rolled to his side, pointing the wand down the hall at Dolohov's retreating form, blood weeping through the shredded fabric of the lower half of his uniform.

"Stupefy!"

At his incantation, Dolohov looked back, before flinging an object over his shoulder. For a split second, Harry saw the grey pillow collide with the crimson spell, before it exploded in a burst of feathers, obscuring the hallway. By the time the view had cleared, leaving down scattered across the floor, the Death Eater had disappeared from sight.

Shite.

"Hey, you all right?" Dung asked, moving towards the fallen Auror. Sturges let out a few hacking coughs, before rising to his feet, and nodding. Without a word of thanks, he tore his wand from Harry's grasp. His eyes were hard, angry.

"What the hell 'as that?" Dung demanded, breaking the awkward silence. "How'd you let 'at psycho bitch get the best of you? Dinnit 'ey train you for 'is type fing?"

His expression deadly, Sturges leaned down and brought Dung to his feet, before burying a fist in his stomach. The blow knocked the air from Fletcher's lungs, doubling him over.

"Stop it!" the girl cried.

Ignoring her, the Auror grasped Mundungus by the back of his head, bringing it down into his rising knee. Dung's nose broke with a crunch, blood dripping from it as he fell to the ground, pulling Harry and the girl back down with him.

"You can keep your thieving mouth shut," the guard hissed. "I'm trying to save you, the last fucking thing I need is your lip."

"Er'e sealed," Mundungus said, before sealing his mouth like a zipper, and throwing away the key.

"What's going to happen now?" Harry asked. "The other guards need to know Dolohov's loose."

The Auror let out a brief, mocking laugh.

"I don't think so, Potter. We're the only ones left on this forsaken rock."

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Author Notes:

Progress on this story has been good, so expect to have chapter two up in a week or so.

Thanks to T3t and PrincessCupcake for the beta work.

Thanks to Grinning Lizard for the help with Dung's cockney accent. Any mistakes are entirely my fault.

Thanks to Mira Mirth and Swindraconian for looking over the outline, and offering valuable advice. Also thanks to vikingsfn, BajaB and scaryisntit for their assistance.

Thanks for reading. If you have any thoughts on the chapter, I'd be interested to hear them.

3. II: Dead to the World

Elizium for the Sleepless Souls

II: Dead to the World

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An oppressive silence followed Sturges' statement. Azkaban, abandoned? Harry couldn't even wrap his mind around the statement, let alone its implications.

"H-h-how?" he finally stuttered. "There's always twenty Aurors stationed on Azkaban at any given time."

The lone Auror shook his head.

"Two days ago, tremors starting hitting the island. With their regularity, it seemed to be something above and beyond a mere natural occurrence. Rumors flew throughout the prison, claiming that the prison was under attack by some strange spell, and that Azkaban was going to be evacuated. When I was relieved off of my last shift, I went straight to sleep after, thinking that I had a long day ahead of me."

Sturges let out a snort of bitter laughter.

"Turns out, I was right. When I awoke, the island was deserted, and all but one of the boats were gone."

"Maybe 'ey all wen' on 'oliday," quipped Mundungus.

"You think this is fucking funny?" Sturges demanded, his eyebrows furrowing in anger. "We are alone here, surrounded by Dementors, and there's a Death Eater on the loose that almost killed me. Oh, and I have the only wand. You want to be back to your cell, be my guest."

The guard stretched his arm out towards the open door, inviting Mundungus to go back.

"No, I'll take my chances wi' you," the ragged man muttered, his gaze fixed upon the floor.

"How could someone cause an earthquake?" questioned Harry.

"As far as I know, you can't," the guard answered, "But then again, I don't have any other explanation to offer. Earthquakes never happen on Azkaban."

"Have you searched the entire island yet?"

"No," the Auror admitted, shaking his head. "Once I discovered that there was a boat left behind, I thought it wiser to collect any remaining prisoners before more cells collapsed."

"Any more?" asked Dung. "Ow many 'ready 'ave?"

"Look, we don't have time for this," the Auror exclaimed. "I plan on getting you three off this island, but at the rate things are going, this entire block might fall into the sea, so let's get moving."

"Wait, aren't you going to undo these?" the girl asked, speaking for the first time as she raised her bound wrists upward.

"No, I'm not," answered Sturges.

"I saved you," Harry pointed out, a fact which scored him no points with the Auror.

"So? You're still a prisoner, and will do as I say."

A scathing reply on the tip of his tongue, one glance at Dung's swelling nose convinced him to swallow it, instead giving a slight nod of assent. Mundungus opened his mouth to argue, but Harry shook his head a single time. The auburn-haired man relented, his eyes reflecting the same fear Harry felt.

If Dolohov attacked them again and overcame Sturges, they would have no chance of getting away.

"A wise decision," Sturges pointed out, before moving in front of the three chained prisoners.

"It's time to move."

Harry and Dung began to walk forward, but the girl remained in place, resisting.

"We're all going to die! Can't you see that?"

"I have no intention of letting that happen," Sturges promised, looking in her direction. "What's your name, girl?"

"M…Marie."

"Well, Marie, our situation is not ideal, but I'm trying to get us out of here. The faster we go, the better the chance we escape before Dolohov come back. So, shall we?"

The blonde girl nodded a single time, before rising back to her feet, prepared to march.

With the grey-haired Auror in the lead, the three chained prisoners shambled across the damp stone, leaving behind the current cell block, moving into the next.

Empty cells lined both sides of the next block, the damp stone walls lit by feeble, sputtering torchlight. Ahead and to his left, a portion of the wall had collapsed, the ebon black sky peering through the wide aperture, flanked by chipped, cracked concrete. A single cell sat at the far end of the missing section, the door and three of the walls having fallen into the sea, leaving behind a single wall and a narrow slice of floor space.

"Do you think anyone was in those cells when they collapsed?" Harry asked as the night's chill cut through his prisoner's garb, inspiring gooseflesh to break out over his arm.

"There were," confirmed Sturges, his expression grim. "They probably ran out of room on the ships before they could get to these cells."

A shiver independent of the cold wind worked its way down his spine as he peered out into the night. No stars burned above, the heavens obscured by thick storm clouds. Beneath such a hopeless visage, it occurred to Harry how easily it could have been him in these cells, helpless as the floor fell away piece by piece, plunging him into the frigid sea.

"So, 'ow'd 'ey catch you, Potter?" Mundungus asked, breaking the silence.

"I tried breaking into the Ministry," answered Harry, keeping his answer vague. The Ministry may have captured him, but still had no idea what his true target had been.

Nor did they have the faintest inkling that he had acquired what he was after. A fact which he had no intention of clueing Auror Sturges in on.

"And you sai' I was nutters," Dung said with a snort, shaking his head. "If wha' I did was foolish, wha' is breakin' inna the most heav'ly' guarded buildin' in Britain?"

"Well, I did almost make it out," answered Harry with a small smile, unwilling to part with any other information. As his gaze found the floor, he noticed a nearby iron grate in the floor, set within a slightly sunken section of floor. Right below the grate, flames reflecting off the liquid surface, water lapped at the sides of the stone drain.

"Is the level always this high?" Harry asked aloud. He couldn't be sure, but thought there was one level of cell blocks below them, the 'basement' of Azkaban.

Sturges shrugged.

"The floor below us floods every once in a while, but usually not this bad. The drains are probably starting to back up, and we don't have the personnel to clear them."

"Either 'at, or this ruddy 'land is sinkin' inna sea," quipped Mundungus.

"Azkaban can't sink, can it?" Marie asked, her eyes wide.

"No, it can't," Harry answered, before turning back towards Dung. "And thanks for the comforting thoughts."

"Well, lad, it's gloomy 'nough on this soddin' 'land, a bit of cheer might go far."

"Well, in that case, maybe you can tell us why you decided to smuggle across Britain's tightly controlled borders? That might be good for a laugh."

Mundungus let out a snort, before shrugging.

"Sure, why not?"

"You might not to talk about your crimes around an Auror," Sturges said, turning towards the man in question.

"Well, I dinnit get 'way wi' it or nothin', so it don' really matter-"

"Quiet, all of you!" Sturges hissed without warning, holding up his left hand. Harry stopped at once, the chains binding the three prisoners together clinking together. The air was still, the only sounds their deep inhalations and the dripping of water. What had the Auror heard?

As still as a statue, Sturges broke his pose, turning back towards them.

"We're at the stairs," he said in a lowered voice. "If Dolohov is going to ambush us, without a wand, it's going to be here. I'll go first, and shield us if he tries to rain stone down on us. Understood?"

"Um, wouldn't we be safer if we weren't tied together," ventured Harry.

The Auror shot him a hardened glare in response.

"I'll give you the go-ahead when its clear," Sturges said, before passing through the entryway to their left, his wand held high. He disappeared into the gloom, fading from their sight.

The three chained prisoners waited with bated breath, their strained eardrums searching for any sign of Dolohov. The whoosh of a chunk of stone cutting through the air as it fell; the thud of a body hitting the floor.

"Come on through," Sturges yelled a moment later, his voice diminished by the stone.

At the command, Harry exhaled deeply, unaware he had been holding it in the first place. Through the wide entryway was a stone staircase with wide, crumbling steps, leading both up and down. Torchlight lit the path leading upwards, displaying a landing bereft of decoration, which led up to the next floor. The path leading deeper into Azkaban was flooded three stairs down, the dim reflection of the yellow flames churning in the black depths.

Sturges stood at the landing between the two floors, his expression grim.

"No sign of Dolohov, but stay alert…and quiet," he added after a moment's pause, looking directly at Mundungus. The short, ragged man took the barb with grace, saying nothing as he followed Harry's lead up the stairs.

The section of Azkaban where the prisoners were held was referred to as 'The Abyss', a structure shaped like a hollow square, the cells stacked against the interior edges. The first floor was located at ground level, with three sub-levels digging deeper into the black stone that comprised the island. The first floor was reserved for Azkaban's short-timers, and featured reasonably warm rooms adorned with sparse furnishings, and meals cooked by house-elves.

Each subsequent level saw conditions deteriorate in exponential fashion, with the third level barely livable, the walls crawling with moisture and mold. Satisfaction filled Harry as he climbed away from it, the place he was almost certain he'd die in.

Fate willing, at the very least he'd be spared of such a dismal end.

Up the stairs they climbed, until there were no more to conquer.

"Stay here," the Auror ordered, before stepping out into a brightly lit corridor, a far cry from the gloom of the third level. After a minute's pause, Sturges bade them forward, into the main corridor.

No liquid glistened on the walls on the ground level. Bright, roaring torches set into shallow alcoves banished every shadow, displaying the spacious cells, free from the ever-present rot and mold Harry had lived with.

"Now, why couldn't they 'ave got me a cell up 'ere, eh?" Dung complained, shaking his head. "Now, I know I ain' no saint, but I ain' never killed no one, and owned up to wha' they charged me wi'. Do you know 'ow insultin' it is to be put next to Death Eaters?"

Harry nodded in agreement, even if his reaction differed. Death Eaters, proven murderers, would have been marked at Level One prisoners, labeling them as the most dangerous at Azkaban, to be housed on the second sub-level. As an enemy of the state, he could see how he himself might have earned such a designation, but certainly not Dung, whose crimes were nothing more serious than a long history of botched cons and smuggling.

As for the girl…

He stole a glance back, catching a brief glimpse of her tightly drawn features, of the glazed, shocked look in her eyes. Unless Marie was a terrific actor, she exuded the aura of someone in the midst of a deep, soul-shattering shock, who had been involved in something so strange their mind couldn't process the situation.

Not a look one would find on the face of a hardened criminal.

"So, Dung," Harry said, picking up the thread of their last conversation. "You never answered my question."

"That's right, I dinnit. Well, wi' the new Ministry policy rubbin' folks the wrong way, there was a lot of 'em who wanted to get out o' the country. Not exactly easy, wi' the new Portkey and Apparation wards 'round the British Isles, though. Only way to get off is transport."

Harry found himself nodding, thinking of how hard it had been to sneak out of the country when the occasion called for it.

"I mean, don' get me wrong, it can be done," Dung clarified. "But if you're trying to get your whole family out, it's a bit harder, specially if you ha' little ones. And, 'at's where I come in."

"So you were transporting people?" Harry asked, his interest rekindled. Ferrying people in and out of the country was a huge risk, one he assumed too big for Mundungus to take.

"No, 'course not," scolded Dung. "Far too dangerous. No, I been smugglin' carpets in."

"Really?" breathed Harry, impressed.

"The 'onest truth," Dung swore, raising one of his manacled hands. "I 'ad an 'ole shipment comin' in a muggle ship, forty of 'em, but the Ministry caught us. Of all the rottenest luck…"

"Hear that, Marie?" asked Harry, turning his gaze to the blonde girl. "Maybe old Dung here isn't such a bad guy after all."

She smiled for a quick moment, before dropping her gaze back to the floor.

"So, what about you?" pressed Harry. "Did you happen to cross the wrong member of the Ministry? Or did they just throw you in here for no good reason?"

Marie shook her head, but offered nothing else in the way of clarification.

Harry, unwilling to drop the issue, began to open his mouth, but his attention flagged as an opening in the wall came into view, hid by a wide buttress.

"We're here," Sturges declared.

The exit from 'The Abyss' was a short corridor twenty feet across, leading into a large chamber. At the edge of an entryway a thick steel gate poked from a crevasse in the wall, barely visible in its recessed position.

"Did they leave it open so people could still escape?" Harry asked.

"Most likely," the Auror conceded, before turning back to the three prisoners. "But now we're going to close it, and lock Dolohov in."

"An' what makes you fink he can't open it?" Dung asked.

Sturges let out a dry chuckle.

"The gate is made out of thick iron, and disrupts magic used upon it. Also, the Death Eater doesn't have these," he concluded, before reaching into his wand and withdrawing two large brass key on a wide metal ring. "The gate will only open and close when operated by two people at once, a luxury Dolohov does not have at this point."

Without warning, Sturges tossed one of the keys to Harry, who snatched it out of the air.

"Go to the other side of the gate," the Auror ordered.

"Wait, wha' if Dolohov is 'ready on 'is site of the gate?" asked Dung, stopping short.

"Then we've lost nothing, since there's nothing back there we need. Any more time-wasting questions, or can we get going?"

A pensive hesitation crossed Mundgunus' face, but he offered no further resistance as the chain gang made their way to the other side of the gate, to where a square copper plate gleamed upon the wall. With no visible way to open it, Harry pressed upon the metallic surface, which yielded a half-inch, before swinging open with a small click. The plate had hid a shallow receptacle cut into the stone, with a large keyhole in the wall.

"Put the key in, but don't turn it," Sturges ordered, his raised voice coming from across the room. Harry did the Auror's bidding, wrestling the key into the lock, a simple task made challenging by the iron restraints around his wrists.

"Remember, both keys have to be turned at exactly the same time, or it won't work. Are you ready for this?"

At Harry's confirmation, the Auror nodded a single time.

"One. Two. Three!"

As the words cut into the air, Harry turned the key. The iron gate came to life at once, racing across the corridor and slamming into the other side with a heavy thud.

Hopefully Dolohov had been on the other side.

Sealed off from 'The Abyss', Harry turned, taking his surroundings.

The lobby was wide, though sparsely decorated. Tall stone columns lined the sides of the hall, stretching up to the high ceiling. The entire middle section of the ceiling was transparent, displaying the ebon heavens above. Between each of the large columns archways were carved into the stone, covering multiple doorways leading away from the lobby. A large octagonal shape which Harry assumed was a reception area sat in the middle of the room.

"This ain' the front entrance, is it?" Dung asked, glancing about the large hall.

"No, it's the rear," answered Sturges. "Only Ministry officials and other dignitaries use the front entrance. This is where all the Aurors, contractors and deliveries come through."

Their footsteps echoed on the smooth stone floor as they walked. To Harry's surprise, miniscule cracks wound and wove beneath his feet, clear proof that the damage to Azkaban was not confined to the Abyss.

"Looks like this place is goin' to fall down 'round us," Dung muttered as he scanned the large room with nervous eyes.

"We'll be off this island before that's an issue," assured Sturges. "All of the larger boats are gone, having transported most of our personnel off-island, but there's a small cove at the rear of the island, where the last remaining boat is."

"Why didn't they take that one too?" asked Harry.

The Auror shrugged.

"I wasn't awake, so I couldn't tell you. Perhaps they felt safer on the large boats."

Not at all reassured, Harry looked up, to the far side of the room. An immense door fifteen feet wide sat at the center, reaching halfway to the high ceiling. Next to it was a smaller sized double-door.

"This boat is safe, right?" asked Marie as they passed the large desk.

"Well-"

Sturges was cut off by the creak of hinges as the far double-door flew open, slamming off the wall. Antonin Dolohov strode through the threshold, his long, dark recently-trimmed hair drenched with rain, his wild beard trimmed down. He was clad in thick black robes, having traded out his prisoner's garb. His eyes blazed with a cold indifference, but the sight which drove fear into Harry's heart was the wand clenched tightly in his left hand.

Marie's high scream cut through the air as Dolohov swung his wand in a high arc, a tongue of flame shooting from its tip. The coil of flame swung out at Sturges, who conjured a vertical wall of water in front of him. Steam hissed in the air as the watery shield bore the brunt of the flame whip.

"Not bad, Auror," sneered Dolohov, disgust dripping from the last word.

"Fall back!" yelled Sturges, before thrusting his wand forward, Transfiguring the standing column of water into ice, creating a physical barrier.

His hearth thrumming violently within his chest, Harry started to flee backwards, before reason took hold.

The iron gate was sealed. They were trapped.

"Stop!" Harry screamed at his two chained companions. Marie, her eyes wild, like that of animal caught in a trap, continued to pull, unbalancing Mundungus. Harry was pulled to the ground as well, striking the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth. Oblivious to the pain, he watched as Sturges darted around the ice shield, flinging a vibrant orange spell. Dolohov thrust his wand forward, deflecting the orange ball of light back at the Auror's barrier.

The shield shattered like glass, chips of ice exploding outwards. Down upon the ground, the three prisoners were spared from the blast radius, but Sturges was thrown back, the pale shards shredding through his crimson robes. Upon his back, cuts and lacerations peppering his face and front of his robes, Struges let out a cry that was equal parts anger and pain.

As Dolohov stalked closer, Harry strained against the bonds, grabbing Sturges wand arm. Always quick on the update, Dung took the other arm and helped to drag him behind the octagonal desk in the middle of the hall, putting a barrier between them and the Death Eater.

"The fuckin' gates's locked," Dung says, his eyes wide. "Where are we 'posed to go?"

"B-back there," Sturges answered with a grunt of pain, pointing towards a side door to their right. Harry, seizing upon Sturges' injury, reached down and ripped the wand from the Auror's grasp.

"What do-" Sturges stated to yell, before Harry brought his wand down, undoing the three sets of manacles, allowing them to clatter to the ground.

"You've just one wand between the four of you," stated Dolohov, his voice echoing through the room. "Throw it down, and no harm shall come to you."

"Give me the fucking wand!" Sturges ordered, lunging towards it, but Harry pulled his arm up, before turning to Dung and Marie.

"Get him to the door! I'll hold off Dolohov!"

"No!" screamed Sturges, kicking and fighting as Dung and Marie began to drag him by the shoulders towards the door. From behind Harry, a spell zigzagged towards Sturges, prompting Harry to conjure a red shield. The spell detonated the shield in a bright discharge of sparks, which floated to the floor like motes.

Harry leapt to his feet, jabbing his wand at Dolohov, launching a Stunner. He then cut his wand to the left, brought it up, before jabbing it forward again. Dolohov deflected each section of the low-level spell chain with ease, possessed of an almost casual precision.

"Such talent, Potter," said Dolohov. "But surely you don't hope to best me?"

"I'll settle for surviving right now," replied Harry, taking several steps away from the Death Eater, whose cool, level demeanor cracked the tiniest bit, a sly smile stretching across the dark complexioned man's face.

"If that is the case, I would keep a more careful eye upon your companions."

He heard a door open off to his side, beyond the borders of his peripheral vision.

"What do you mean?" asked Harry, stalling for time.

The Eastern European man's eyes hardened.

"Look around you, Potter. The inhabitants of Azkaban are not known for having hearts of gold."

To his disbelief, the Death Eater lowered his wand.

"Consider this a friendly warning. I have every intention of escaping this island, and will not be slowed down by your feeble attempts. Do not try to stop me."

"And if I do?" challenged Harry, sounding far more brave than he felt.

A smile crept onto Dolohov's face, one that promised unspeakable cruelties.

"There will be no second warning," promised the Death Eater, before turning on his heel and heading towards the door leading to the cove. For a moment Harry considered cursing him in the back, but reason prevailed. Dolohov would best him in a flash, and would be far less charitable with mercy.

The bullet dodged for now, Harry back towards the doorway the other three had disappeared into, his mind a whirlwind of thought. Why didn't Dolohov just kill him? In all of his dealing with Death Eaters, every single one had attempted to kill him at their earliest convenience. What made Dolohov different? Had the Death Eater just been screwing with his head? Or was the warning about Harry's companions genuine?

No closer to an answer, Harry pulled down on the brass door handle, opening it. Beyond stretched a narrow stole hallway, lit by candles burning with a white light. There was not a soul in sight, but he spied knut-size drops of blood upon the stone floor, leading to the door at the end.

As the echo of his words faded from the air, Mundungus and Sturges stepped out from recessed alcoves in the wall, each man holding clubs made from ironwood.

An implement of torture he had grown familiar with during Umbridge's interrogations.

"Potter, you're alive!" exclaimed Dung, rushing forward a giving Harry a hearty slap on the back. Sturges, his face lined with dozens of small cuts weeping blood, reached forward, snatching back his wand.

"How'd you escape Dolohov?" he hissed.

Harry shrugged.

"Dolohov gave me the option of walking away, or dying while trying to stop him from taking the boat."

"He knows about the boat!"

"Yes, he knows, and he said he'd kill us if we tried to stop him."

"We're going after him!" Sturges yelled, before using a healing spell to staunch the bleeding.

"Wi' one wand?" asked Dung skeptically, raising an eyebrow. "That's suicide."

Sturges cleansed the blood from his face with a wave of his wand, before shaking his head.

"It's suicide to stay here, with Azkaban crumbling around our ears. Besides, no matter how dangerous, Dolohov is just one man, trying to launch a boat by himself. We can catch up to him."

"Oh, so they'll be plenty of time for 'im to slaughter us."

With a growl, Sturges plowed forward, grabbing Dung by the front of his black and white prisoner's uniform, and slamming him into the wall.

"Listen here, Dung! I've had to put up with nothing but bullshit from you, and I'm getting tired of it! I will not have you continue to undermine my authority-"

The Auror was cut off as Harry grabbed him from behind, spinning him away from Dung. He hit the wall hard, before bringing his wand up, pointing it straight at Harry's heart.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you," the Auror demanded, his lips pulled back into a feral snarl.

"There isn't one," Harry said, standing still. "If your plan is to go after Dolohov with one wand, killing me now would only move up the timeline a bit."

Sturges eyes narrowed slightly, the tip of the wand quaking. He let out a deep breath, before lowering his arm to the floor, prompting Harry to give a mental sigh of relief.

"I'm not planning to just throw my life away. I have a plan, and if we follow it, we can all walk away from this alive. Follow me."

Without any further words, Sturges turned toward the door at the end of the hallway, marching towards it. Behind the Auror's back, Harry and Mundungus shared a knowing glance.

Were they about to walk into the belly of the beast?

Out of other options, Harry began to walk, trailing behind the Auror, each step apprehensive.

If Sturges' plan didn't work, very shortly they would all be dead.

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Author Notes:

I've had this chapter done for three weeks, but since I literally worked every day but the first two days of January, I haven't had the time to edit it. Finally found some time tonight, so here it be. The next chapter is done, so I hope to have it up in a week or so. If work cooperates, that is.

Thanks to T3t and PrincessCupcake for the beta work.

Again, thanks to Grinning Lizard's help with Dung's cockney accent. Any mistakes are my fault entirely.

Thanks for reading. If you have any thoughts or question, please don't hesitate to leave a review. I reply to everything that's signed, if not always in a timely manner.

4. III: Blue Water

Elizium for the Sleepless Souls

III: Blue Water

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"You kin come ou', it's 'afe," declared Mundungus, closing the door behind him. Prompted by the bandy-legged man's assurance, a frizzy nest of dirty blonde hair rose up from behind the long counter running the entire length of the back wall. Marie's eyes were bloodshot, while her hands shook.

"I-is he gone?"

"For now," answered Harry.

"Ay, I 'ow 'is place," Mundungus noted, taking a look around the room. "This is where 'ey first took me when I got to 'is soddin' rock."

"This is Processing," explained Sturges, before striding forward and lifting up a section of the counter, allowing access to the back of the room. "All new prisoners come through here."

Harry shook his head in distaste, recalling his harrowing, blinded arrival to Azkaban.

"They never bothered with me."

"Not everyone is as concerned with protocol as they should be," remarked Sturges, a bitter note in his words. As he approached Marie, the young woman reached out, grabbing his free arm.

"What are we going to do?" she demanded, a rising panic in her voice, wide eyes focused upon the lacerations scratched across the Auror's face. "Dolov has a wand!"

"I noticed," Sturges sneered, ripping his arm free from her grasp, not bothering to correct her butchering of the Eastern European Death Eater's name.

"But…what can we do?" she asked in hushed tones, stunned by the Auror's callous response.

"We won't make it easy on him, that's for sure," Sturges answered, before stomping through the nearest door.

"Not 'actly a shinin' beacon of hope, is he?" Dung noted.

Instead of answering, Harry moved forward, placing his hand on Marie's shoulder.

"He has something up his sleeve. We're going to make it out of this, Marie."

She favored him with a small, grateful smile.

"Thanks," she whispered, before turning and following Sturges' path.

The room beyond was square, floor-to-ceiling shelving covering every inch of available wall space. Upon the shelves were a seamless pattern of rectangular wooden drawers, stacked upon one another. A single door was set into the far wall, the sole break in the shelving.

Despite the door's non-descript appearance, a soul-deep dread latched onto his soul at the sight, as deep as the Dementor's touch. Involuntary shivers racking his frame, he broke his gaze from the door, to the discarded prisoner's uniform upon the floor. Black and white striped pants, stained a mottled grey and yellow, pulled inside out, as if the wearer couldn't wait to shed himself of the Azkaban garb.

"Guess 'is is where Dolohov changed," noted Mundungus, bringing up the rear.

"Sturges, what is this place?" asked Harry, struggling to keep his voice level.

"Personal Effects," Sturges answered without turning, his eyes scanning the columns of drawers.

"And…what's beyond the door?"

"Just an empty storage room."

The answer failed to put Harry's mind at ease. He had never been in this room before, or the next, so why should it affect him on such a deep level?

He took a single step forward, before faltering, terror clawing at him. A deep, primal part of his consciousness screamed, ordering him to stay away from the door. Harry took a long, steadying breath, turning away once again. What the fuck was wrong with him?

On the edges of his vision, he saw Sturges pull open one of the drawers with a muted creak. The Auror reached in, withdrawing a short wand crafted from a light-colored wood, and tossing it to Mundungus. The short, scraggly man caught it, his eyes wide.

"Uh, fanks," Dung stuttered, surprised by the Auror's actions. He gave the wand an exploratory wave, a crooked smile stretching across his features. "I dinnit fink you'd give 'ese back."

"I wasn't going to," admitted Sturges, "But a Death Eater on the loose changes the game. Besides, if you lot were going to curse me in the back, Potter would have already done it."

"Well, uh, 'least lemme fix those," Dung said, motioning towards the slices marring the Auror's face.

Sturges shook his head.

"Later," he said, before closing the drawer and moving several columns to the right. He withdrew another wand from a different drawer, before turning and slapping a wand into Harry's palm. A familiar warmth spread up Harry's arm as the smooth holly made contact with his skin.

"Thanks," Harry said, the warmth taking the edge of the worst of the inexplicable dread.

"That's twice now I would have been dead without you," stated Sturges. "I appreciated you stepping up, son."

Harry inclined his head slightly, glad that Sturges was finally starting to realize they weren't out to get him. Satisfied, the Auror shifting his gaze to the young blonde.

"What's your last name, Marie?"

"Branson," she answered quietly, her gaze cast upon the floor.

Sturges moved to the left-hand wall, scanning the stacks. After a minute of searching, he whirled back towards the girl, causing her to take a step back.

"What the bloody hell are you playing at, girl?" he demanded, clearly agitated. "Want to try again on the last name?"

"It – it's Marie Elizabeth Branson," she insisted, her voice wavering with fear.

"Bullshit. Every single prisoner that arrives here has their wand stored in this room. What are you hiding?"

As Marie cowered, Harry's mind worked itself back to Dolohov's parting words. Had the Death Eater been warning about her?

"Marie," Harry said in soft, entreating tones. "Were you ever brought to Azkaban?"

"No," she sobbed, shaking her head. "I already told you, I don't know what I'm doing here."

Sturges took a step forward, opening his mouth, but Harry raised a single time, pleading for silence. The Auror's eyes narrowed, but he relented, backing away from the girl, who had crossed her arms over her chest.

"Marie, what's the last thing you remember?"

"I…I had just Apparated to Diagon Alley, and was on the way to the Apothecary..."

"And then?" urged Harry.

"I woke up here!" she yelled, before raising her hands, pulling at her dirty tresses for a moment, before dropping her arms in defeat.

"I don't believe any of this," Sturges said, focusing a smoldering glare upon the girl. "She can't give her real name, she doesn't get a wand."

No sooner had the Auror's words lit into the air, a wand flew through the air, bouncing off Marie's shoulder, and clattering to the ground. The picture of nonchalance, his arm outstretched from the toss, Mundungus turned his back to the three other, refocusing his attention upon the drawer.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" an irate Sturges demanded, causing Mundungus to let out a derisive snort.

"Just like it looks: breakin' inta Lucius Malfoy's drawer. I'll bet 'e came in 'ere weighed down with gold, not to mention that the young lass needed a wand."

"No you aren't," snarled the Auror, darting forward and slamming the drawer shut.

"Now you listen-"

"Shut up!" roared Sturges, cutting off Dung. "You have wand, but I'm still the only Auror here, putting me in charge. I will not have you stealing inmates' property, or giving wands to people I don't trust."

He punctuated the end of his statement with a dagger of a glare in Marie's direction, prompting the young woman to drop her gaze, though not the elm wand clutched to her chest.

"Well, since yer a guard and whatnot, wouldn't you know who she was?" asked Fletcher.

Sturges froze for a moment, as if caught flat-footed by the question, before reddening further, a thick vein pulsing in the center of his forehead.

"Do you know how large this island is? There's parts of it I've never even patrolled! There's…"

The Auror trailed off mid-sentence, before exhaling deeply and running a hand along the thin stubble coating his bloodied cheeks.

"Fine, she can keep the wand," he conceded, with a weary wave of his hand. Behind him, Marie let out a small smile, before bringing her wand up in an arc, letting out a shower of glittering purple sparks.

His thoughts whirring, Harry moved next to Mundungus, staring at the names emblazoned upon the copper plates adorning the nearest drawers.

Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.

All three of the Malfoys held high standing within Voldemort's circle, and had all been at large when the Ministry had caught him.

What the hell had happened since his stint in Azkaban? Had he been here longer than he thought? The Malfoys were Voldemort's chief financial supports, losing the three of them would have been a tremendous blow to Voldemort's campaign.

"Dung, where were the Malfoys captured?" asked Harry, turning to the short man.

"Oh, let's see…mayhap three weeks after you? The Aurors marched ri' up and tore down 'ier protections on Malfoy Manor piece by piece, like it was noffin."

Harry let out a low whistle. It would have taken half of the entire DMLE to pull off an operation that big. Curious to see if any of the other notable players in the war had been captured, he started to scan the nameplates, only to have a heavy hand fall upon his shoulder.

"Look, Harry, we can't spend much time around here, we've got to catch Dolohov before he leaves us all behind. Let's go."

Harry nodded in understanding, before catching Mundungus' bloodshot eyes. The auburn-haired man inclined his head slightly in Marie's direction. The girl had retreated into the shadows, as if wanting to disappear into them. Taking the hint, he reached out and grasped Sturges' left arm, stopping him. The Auror reacted predictably, spinning around and breaking Harry's grip.

"What?" he snapped impatiently.

"Look, this isn't going to work," Harry said, shaking his head. "We're not prisoners any more; just three people who want to get out of here."

"I see a traitor to his country, a thief, and…well, who know what she is," Sturges snorted, making a fist and jerking his outstretched thumb in her direction. "I'll be damned if I'm going to let one of your curse me in the back."

"Why would we do 'at?" asked Dung, throwing his hands in the air. "That's not jus' any Death Eater out 'ere, but Antonin Dolohov! I wouldn't 'eel 'afe goin' after 'im wi' ten wands. Fink I'm gonna be riskin' the odds by takin' you out? Not bloody likely."

"I know you don't trust me," said Marie, finally speaking up, "But I don't want to be killed by Dolov. I can help, I swear!"

Sturges was silent for a moment, his eyes scanning the three faces before him. After the short inspection, he let out a deep sigh.

"Fine, fine. But let's get going before Dolohov leaves us behind, and makes us fly back. Unless you'd all fancy a bout of hypothermia?"

Bereft of dissension, Sturges turned and led them out of Personal Effects.

Chips of melting ice littered the stone floor of the lobby, as did the scorch marks of spellfire, but of Dolohov there was no sign.

"D-do you think he's hiding, waiting for us?" Marie asked, her wand raised high, her eyes mapping every corner of the room.

Sturges shook his head.

"Dolohov was probably more concerned with getting out of here than stopping us. If he left behind any surprises for us, they'd be in a smaller, enclosed area, where the odds of catching us were higher."

"Why can't he just leave us alone?" whined Marie, prompting Harry to let out a bitter laugh.

"I've been wondering the same thing for as long as I can remember."

"Wait, have you fought with this Dolov guy before?"

Harry suppressed a deep sigh, but chose not to dignify her question with an answer. He exchanged a glance with Mundungus, who gave a brief shrug in response. Whatever doubts Harry had regarding Marie's innocence fled at once, as someone this clueless would not attempt to knowingly commit a crime.

Sturges held up a hand as they reached the door Dolohov had disappeared though.

"As much as I think Dolohov didn't bother to set up anything, we can't just assume. Fletcher, how's your Detection Charm?"

"Good 'nough," the man in question answered with an uncharacteristic lack of hyperbole.

"Stay behind me, then. Once I've confirmed the room as clear, I'll need you to take lead, with a Detection Charm at the ready. Got it?"

Dung nodded a single time, which seemed to satisfy the Auror.

"Good then. Harry, Marie, you stay in the middle, and keep your eyes open. There's no telling what this bastard has planned. Wish me luck."

Without further delay, Sturges kicked the door in. He marched through, wand held high, a grey physical shield blooming in front him. Harry followed to the door's threshold, ready to strike should Dolohov poke his head out.

"Homenum revelio!"

Not a single flash accompanied Sturges' spell, confirming the room as safe.

"It's clear. Fletcher, come on up."

The scraggly man took a deep breath, before stepping forward. He brought his wands to his eyes a single time, before stepping forward.

"Anything?" Sturges asked after a moment.

"I…I don' fink so," replied Dung, his voice devoid of confidence.

"You don't think?" spat Sturges, incredulous.

"Well, fine, Dolohov dinnit leave any surprises, but…"

"But what?"

"There's faint, faint traces of magic over ev'ryfing, like a fin sliver o' ice 'ver a lake."

"Maybe it's the last traces of the Dementors," Harry suggested. Even though he hadn't seen a single Dementor, their chill radiated from every stone of this wretched place, as if the architecture itself had held onto their memory, no place more so than Personal Effects.

Shaking his head, Harry stepped through the threshold.

Beyond lay a cavern, its moisture dampened walls hollowed from dark stone. Illumination was scant, which Harry fixed with a simple spell, spreading a warm white light in every direction, banishing the shadows. In the brightness, a small corridor nestled between two angular sections of wall to the left popped out. He observed that the path led downward, disappearing into the darkness.

"You fink 'ey left 'oo?" Dung asked, dropping the magical sight spell.

"It makes sense. If we're the only people on this island, the Dementors should be swarming us, like moths flocking to a flame."

"Yeah, mayhap 'ey got tired of 'is soddin' island too."

"Is that where Dolov…I mean Dolohov went?" whispered Marie.

"That corridor leads down to the dock, so I'd assume so," Sturges said, walking towards the opening. "If he left any surprises behind for us, that's where they'd be. In a small, enclosed space."

Despite his apparent calm, Harry's heart thrummed wildly within his chest. Chasing Dolohov, one the most skilled Death Eaters in Voldemort's armada, down into the darkness was the last thing in the world he wanted to do, but saw little choice in the matter.

"Marie, take over the light," ordered Sturges, turning towards the girl. "If we come under fire, we're going to need Potter at the ready."

She nodded a single time, her eyes wide.

"Lumos."

A muted white light spread forth from the tip of her wand, allowing for Harry to cancel his own spell. The glow from her wand was half as bright as his own, but sufficient for their purposes.

Fletcher reapplied the spell to his eyes, before stepping into the gaping mouth of the dark corridor, Sturges right behind him, wand drawn. Harry and Marie followed five feet behind, ready for the worst. With every step the light from the witch's wand pushed the curtain of darkness further back, like an army chasing a retreating foe.

The path took the quartet deeper into the stone heart of the island. No words were exchanged to break the tense atmosphere, with heavy footsteps, howling wind and a persistent dripping their only companion. At each gentle turn of the tunnel, Harry was convinced that a hidden runic mine would detonate, painting their innards across the cold walls.

With no prior warning, the tunnel emptied out into an endless black void, the sharp tang of salt assaulting his nose.

They had made it.

Rain pelted the four survivors as they emerged, soaking them within seconds. A narrow plinth of stone spread away from the tunnel's exit, which to a wooden pier. Tied to one of the sturdy posts was a small boat, which tossed and rocked with every heave of the turbulent sea, like a toy in the ocean. The water level was far higher than Harry would have expected, just below the level of the pier.

"It must be high tide-" Sturges started to say, before a large wave lifted the boat up, before smashing it down upon the dock with a crack that echoed throughout the enclosed port. Harry's breath caught in his throat, but the small boat lived through the assault, remaining buoyant.

"Shite, we 'ave to move!" Dung declared, starting to race towards the boat, before stopping in his tracks.

"Think, Fletcher," hissed Sturges. "We rush aboard and miss something Dolohov left behind, no one will be left to escape."

"I know that," Dung snapped back, before jabbing his wand upward.

"Homenum revelio!"

There was no reaction to the detection spell, proving negative once again.

"So where is he?" asked Marie, her voice quivering.

"Mayhap 'e's decided 'e likes it 'ere," Dung muttered, staring at the boat.

Dung has more to say, but a bright flash of lightning stilled the words upon his lips. Before Harry's reflexes kicked in, the world exploded with light, revealing the four stone walls making up the interior of Azkaban's inner courtyard, stretching up to an insurmountable height, topped by a pure black sky. The roar of thunder followed an instant later, eliciting a high scream from Marie.

Harry shut his eyes against the glare, and by the time they opened again, the darkness had once again fallen, even deeper than before.

"Look, even if Dolohov is aboard the boat, we have to know either way," reasoned Harry. "If we wait around too long, it's going to sink."

"Fine," conceded Sturges, unhappy with his statement, but unable to deny it. "Potter, you stay here and cover our backs, make sure Dolohov isn't just waiting to blast the boat from afar."

Mundungus was displeased with the orders, but offered no resistance, reapplying his magical sight. He crept across the flat expanse of stone slowly, the Auror at his back, trying to watch every inch of the courtyard at once.

"I feel so useless," Marie admitted with preamble, wet strands of hair obscuring her features.

"You're providing us with light," Harry pointed out, creeping towards the tunnel leading away from the dock. Left unsaid was that the glow emanating from her wands was feeble at best, the usual mark of an unskilled witch.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her boots splashing through the thin film of water as she followed him.

Instead of answers, he let his actions do the speaking. With precise movements, he wielded his wand like a knife, scratching a Germanic rune onto the edge of the tunnel wall. He swept his wand to the opposite side of the wall, Transfiguring a tiny section into mirror, before feeding a small amount of magic into the rune. A small beam of crimson light erupted from the rune, reflecting off the mirror before fading from sight.

"What…what was that?" asked Marie, her eyes mide.

"Simple detection ward," answered Harry, turning to watch Mundungus and Sturges creep closer to the rocking boat. "If Dolohov breaks the beam, it give off a bright flash of light."

"Wait, you just cast a Ward?"

"A really simple one," clarified Harry, detecting awe in her voice. "I didn't take Ancient Runes at Hogwarts, so my knowledge is rudimentary at best. Everything I learned is second-hand."

"What are you talking about? Hogwarts doesn't teach Ancient Runes. I can't even guess how you learned about Warding. Is that why you got sent to Azkaban? Practicing Ministry-controlled magic?"

Her comment stopped him short, drawing his attention away from scanning the darkness for any signs of Dolohov. A realization was starting to dawn upon Harry, one that had unfathomable implications.

"Marie, do you know who I am?"

The blonde girl let out a snort.

"Yeah, you're Harry Potter, and that seems to mean something to everyone else here."

"But not you?"

"No!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms into the air. "You keep acting like the name 'Harry Potter' should mean anything to me, or that I should know who Dolohov is, or these 'Death Eaters' that you keep talking about. It's like-"

"Shite, get back!" Dung screamed, his voice rolling out across the open courtyard. "It's going to-"

Harry turned as the scream was cut off, just in time to see Dung and Sturges running away from the boat, the Auror flagging. A loud blast rang out across the night air as a raging torrent of fire bloomed out in all directions from the boat. As if carried by the wind, the blast's concussion lifted up the two running men and flung them like rag dolls, sending them skidding across the narrow expanse of stone.

His eyes burning from the brightness, he turned away in time to see Sturges, his robes alight, slam into the stone wall, before coming to rest. As Marie's shriek cut through the torrential downpour, Harry was already on the move, dodging piles of burning debris scattered across the landing, pulling in burning air through his mouth. With a wave of his wand, the flames shrouding Sturges vanished, leaving behind wisps of smoke.

Harry started to move closer to the Auror, but he rolled over, coughing violently. The flesh of his face was burned to a red sheen, but he shook his head as he coughed, before motioning to his right with a scorched hand.

Mundungus Fletcher lay facedown upon the wet stone, twenty feet away, unmoving. With a curse, Harry rushed towards the downed man, praying that the blast hadn't killed him. Sturges had been closer, so Dung should have received-

His train of thought was broken by second, muted flash of light from the mouth of the tunnel.

Dolohov!

Harry spun his wand around, milliseconds from raising a shield, just as a crimson curse slammed into his chest. His wand was ripped from his grasp as he was blown backwards. He landed hard upon his back, knocking the breath from his lungs. A balloon of pain expanding with his chest, Harry rolled over, to see Sturges fling a curse. Dolohov, his rain-slicked hair whipping about him, dodged the purple jet of light, flicking his wand upwards. As if pulled by an invisible hook, the Auror was jerked off his feet, and suspended in midair, upside down.

A cruel smile contorting his sharp features, the Death Eater jabbed his wand forward. Sturges flew forward, slamming into the stone wall, before crumpling to the ground. With a casual wave, Sturges was flung across the expanse, before crashing back to the ground next to Harry. He tumbled gracelessly, his singed crimson robes flying about him as he rolled to a stop inches from the drop into the ocean.

"You too, Fletcher!" Dolohov declared, firing a Disarmer at the prone man. Dung slid across the wet rock, landing beside Harry. To the young adult's surprise, Dung's eyes were clear, as if he had been playing possum.

A ploy which had yielded no benefit.

Struggling to breathe, Harry's gaze found the one remaining member of their quartet still standing.

Marie.

"What will it be, girl?" Dolohov asked, a relaxed smile gracing his features. At his question, the blonde girl took a step backwards, her back inches from the smooth rock face. Fear and anger mingled within her eyes, warring for dominance.

"You wrecked our only chance out of here!" she screamed, anger winning the battle.

"Did I?"

A mad light danced within the Death Eater's eyes, a fine balance between insanity and murder. He crept closer the girl, wand raised high in both hands. As the sleeves of his robes pulled away, Harry observed that Dolohov's left, non-wand hand, was a mass of red, shining raw flesh, as if the first two layers of skin had been burned off.

"You stay away from me!" screamed Marie, wand raised high.

"Or you'll-"

"Stupefy!"

As soon as the spell left the girl's lips, her wand was wrenched from her hand, before flying towards Dolohov. He caught it with his right hand, before placing it in his pocket, deftly avoiding the scarlet spell.

"Foolish girl," Dolohov said softly, his gaze fixed upon Marie. "Didn't you know that a loose-handed grip opens your wand to being Summoned?"

The witch stared at her empty hand for a moment, wide surprise written across her face. Astonishment gave way to defeat, her shoulder slumping as tears filled her eyes.

"P-please don't hurt me."

"I assure you, I have no intention of hurting you," Dolohov assured, before motioning towards Harry. "Now run along and join the rest of your friends before I change my mind."

His breathing becoming less painful by the second, Harry watched as Marie made her way over, tears and rain mingling upon her cheeks.

What was Dolohov playing at? Was he just going to slaughter them like cattle? Or did he have something far worse in mind?

"Good girl," the Death Eater said as Marie stood next to Harry, arms crossed over her chest, shivering from the chill. "Sadly, the same courtesy does not extend to your Auror protector."

Dolohov jerked his wand backwards, causing Sturges to fly forward. A grunt of pain escaped his lips as he tumbled across the ground, coming to a rest at the Death Eater's feet.

"Leave him alone," Harry shouted, his voice hoarse.

"Or you'll do…what, exactly?" asked Dolohov, as if truly interested in Harry's rationale.

The nineteen year-old began to respond, before realizing he was without wand, hope or bargaining position.

"It is good that you understand the nature of this situation," remarked the Death Eater, Harry's silence being the only answer he needed. A look of distaste crossing his features, Dolohov turned his attention down to the older man crumpled at his feet. Without warning, the dark-haired man raised his boot, bringing it down upon Sturges' wrist.

The old guard writhed in agony as Dolohov began to grind his heel down into the brittle bones of his wrist. With an anguished scream, the Auror's fist opened, a wedge-shaped stone with a sharp end falling to the ground.

"Did you really think that would work?" asked Dolohov, before slashing his wand down. An invisible projectile slammed against the side of Sturges' head, rocking his head to the left.

"Did you think that I had forgotten?"

A maniacal gleam rose in Dolohov's eyes as he cut his wand to the other side. The blow rocked Sturges's head back to the right, a small splash of blood sloshing onto the wet stone.

"No! Wait-" pleaded Sturges, lifting his hands up, but a third blow connected directly to his mouth. The sound of breaking china rolled across the night air as the Auror's hands fell back to the ground. He let out a shrill scream, exhaling a mist of blood and small white chips.

"Do you hear their screams at night, John? Do you hear them pleading when you lie awake? Or do you sleep like a child?"

Each question was punctuated with another blow, splattering more of the Auror's blood onto the ground. A trail of crimson ran away from the man's body, the miniscule current reaching for the sea.

Though the Death Eater's eyes were glued upon the Auror, Harry had no illusions about his chances of rescuing Sturges without a wand. Still, his conscious howled, indignant that he was just standing around as opposed to helping out.

As Dolohov drew back his arm for another swing, Mundungus struggled to his feet, wavering like a drunk. He stumbled forward a few steps, standing slightly ahead of Harry. He let out a scream of pain as he tore off his smoldering robes, before falling to his knees. Dolohov's eyes flicked towards Fletcher for a moment, before moving back to Sturges.

The Death Eater missed the widening of Harry's eyes as he beheld the spare wand tucked between the small of Dung's back and his belt.

"Dung, you can't help him!" Harry cried out, going to one knee and putting a hand upon Dung's shoulder. The flesh beneath his palm was uncomfortably warm to the touch, and prompted Mundungus to let out a fresh cry of pain. He cringed at the scream, but knew that if his feint had any chance of working, he had to make it look like he was restraining Dung.

"Listen to Potter," Dolohov spat, before raising his wand again. Harry seized the opportunity, reaching down and plucking the stolen wand from Dung's belt, and jabbing it at the Death Eater. With lightning reflexes, Dolohov brought his wand up, conjuring a shield, which absorbed Harry's Bludgeoner. The Death Eater cut the wand across his body, preparing to cast, but Sturges kicked out with his legs, catching the Eastern European in the back of his left knee.

The crimson spell meant for Harry was thrown off, passing by on his left. The Stunner struck Marie instead. Her arms flew back as her eyes closed, and she flopped off the edge of the stone plinth, into the sea.

Instead of the splash that Harry expected, the water swallowed her with a loud hiss. Scarlet ran into the water as it ate through her flesh in second, exposing strings of muscle and tendon. Marie's eyes flew open at the last second, her mouth starting to open, before her head fell beneath the surface. The eyes liquefied within the sockets, like runny eggs, before she was lost from sight.

"No."

It was only a single word, but the whispered syllable from Dolohov was enough to break Harry's paralysis. He thrust his wand, forward, flinging a Disarmer.

The Death Eater never even reacted, allowing the spell to strike him in the chest. He was tossed back across the outcropping of stone, his back colliding against the rock wall. Four wands clattered to the ground as he struck, littering the stone like discarded toys.

"It…cannot be," whispered Dolohov, as if talking to himself. Harry, acting on pure instinct, not allowing himself to think, jabbed his wand forward, flinging a Stunner. The Death Eater rolled out of the way at the last second, just avoiding the spell. He took off up the corridor, leaving the three remaining survivors to themselves.

His mind still a blank, Harry turned back towards the turbulent water.

All that remained of Marie were strands of blond hair floating in a murky red soup, which was being dispersed quickly by the raging sea, spreading out in all directions.

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Author Notes:

I've had this chapter done for two weeks, it was just a matter of editing it. I'm not exactly happy with Dung's cockney accent, but don't feel like working on it any further to improve it. The next chapter only has about a thousand words, so it will be at least a month before it surfaces, with how scarce my free time has been as of late.

Thanks to T3t and PrincessCupcake for the beta work.

Thanks for reading. Any thoughts or questions, feel free to drop a review. I reply to every signed review I leave, and appreciate each and every single one.

5. IV: Slow Kill

Elizium for the Sleepless Souls

IV: Slow Kill

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The driving rain beat down upon the rocky outcropping. Drops of water ran down Harry's face, but he made no movement to wipe them away. Shock had settled into his muscles, leaving them inert, useless. Only his eyes moved, following the trailing edges of the crimson red stain as it disappeared into the black sea.

"The sea fuckin' ate 'er!" gasped Mundungus, his voice barely audible above the roar of the rain. "Wha….Harry…"

Harry turned at the mention of his name, towards the drenched, squat man. Dung's eyes were wide, the pupils fully dilated, as he glanced from Harry back to the waves which Marie had slipped under.

"I…."

Unable to articulate a response, Harry trailed off into silence, unable to make any sense of it all. The water had eaten her, like acid through steel door. Was that why Azkaban had been left behind?

Harry had never heard of Transfiguration on such a grand scale, changing an entire body of water. The magic required for such a task should have been too much for an entire legion of wizards to accomplish, thought it would explain why the island seemed to be literally crumbling around them.

With no answer forthcoming, Dung turned and marched over to Sturges. The Auror was in a sitting position, his splayed fingers upon the wet stone holding his body up. Rain washed the blood from the ruins of his face, cleansing the jagged tears of flesh and shattered teeth. He looked up briefly at Mundungus' approach, before dismissing the man and gazing back towards the raging sea.

"You!" snarled Fletcher, panic and instability drowning his words. "I 'ever seen a fing likes that 'fore! Wha' ain you tellin' us?"

Sturges gave a faint shrug, the barest of acknowledgements. His expression was blank, as if his mind had more important matters to attend to.

"Sturges, don' you fuckin' play stupid wi' me!" yelled Dung, jabbing a finger at the downed man. His voice had risen to an angry roar that Harry had never heard before. It had more than a touch of instability. Before Harry knew it, his legs were moving, crossing the short distance separating them.

"I. Don't. Know."

The Auror spat each word, before glancing upwards, his glare cold, defiant.

"Bollocks!" snarled Dung, before dropping to the ground, snatching his wand up. He jabbed it forward, pointing its quivering tip at Sturges' heart. "You fuckin' know! Close t' a 'undred Aurors on 'is bleedin' rock, 'an yer the only one who got lef' behin'? Wha's goin' on?"

Harry slipped behind Mundgunus, whose attention was focused upon the Auror, blotting the rest of the world. He ducked down, hooking his arms beneath Dung's armpits, locking the man in a full-nelson before falling backwards, taking him down to the ground. Water splashed up as he fell, soaking the last few inches of dry areas left on his body. Mundungus thrashed against Harry, trying to break his grip, but he held strong, not yielding an inch.

"Geddof me!" Dung demanded, his struggles weakening. "We 'ave to fin' out wha 'e knows!"

"That's not important right now," countered Harry, fighting the urge to scream at the bedraggled man. The shrill voice of panic coiled in his mind, but Harry fought against it, well aware that letting his emotions run free would do them no good.

"The hell it aint! We-"

With a twist of his arms, Harry turned Dung's head towards the black sea, cutting him off.

"That's what's important, Dung! We don't get off this rock, we're all going for a swim!"

At the edge of the stone plinth, a wave higher than the rest crashed, sending a torrent of water splashing onto the rocks. They crashed against the gentle downward slope, before draining back into the churning depths. The sight said more Harry's words ever could, relaxing Fletcher's struggles.

Releasing Dung, Harry rolled away and rose up. Dung did the same, stuffing his wand in his pocket before wordlessly extending a hand towards the fallen Auror. Resignation in his eyes, Sturges took the hand. He let out a hiss of pain as he was pulled to his feet. Unable to support his own weight, Harry supported the older man's other side, and the three of them hobbled across the outcropping, back into the tunnel.

As they entered the fissure, Harry glanced backwards, to see a large wave crash down, covering the black stone. Steam briefly rose from the rock, before the wind swept it away.

"Tha' was too bloody close," Dung said, following Harry's eyes.

"We're not out of the woods yet. Come on."

They made their way up the dark staircase, the Auror supported between the two of them. Harry's muscles groaned in protest, but he held out until they reached the top of the stairs. Dung nearly collapsed to the ground, his breathing deep, ragged.

"How high does the tide come up?" asked Harry, staring at the Auror.

Sturges tried to answer, but let out a groan, his hand going to his jaw.

"Shite, sorry," swore Harry, before turning to Mundungus. "How are your Healing Charms?"

"Not…so…good," gasped Dung between large pulls of air.

"Do you want-"

Before he could finish the sentence, Sturges nodded, imploring him to continue.

"Alright," said Harry, withdrawing his wand and pointing it at Sturges' face. He started off with a Numbing Charm, before attempting to repair the Auror's broken jaw. The bones within ground together as the lopsided slant of his jaw righted itself, becoming almost level.

"Is…is that any better?"

"A little," granted Sturges, running a hand over his repaired jaw. "You know, I've never seen the tide rise that high before. Maybe there's a full moon tonight, and the storm clouds are covering it up."

"So it's just 'igh tide, is tha' all?" Dung asked, his tone dripping with scorn. "Ere's no sense 'n this. I'm tellin' ya, someone is tryin' te take out Azkaban."

"That's ridiculous," countered Sturges. "Raise the level of the ocean…"

Dung let out a bitter cackle at the Auror trailed off.

"Yeah, jus' as bonkers as turnin' the sea inna acid, eh?"

Unable to form a reply, Sturges opted to struggle to his feet. Harry went to help, but the wizened Auror waved him off, pushing off the stone wall instead.

"You sure you can stand up?" asked Harry. With the beating Sturges had just taken, it was a miracle he was even still conscious.

"No, but trying is a better plan that sitting around and waiting for Dolohov to come and finish us off."

"You're still worried about him?"

"You're bloody fucking right I'm worried!" exploded Sturges at Dung's question, gesturing to his beaten, lumpy face. "Did you see him rearrange me face? Did you see him dump Marie in the water?"

"I saw 'is face. Dolohov was jus' as shocked as us when s-she 'ell in. Crikes, 'o wouldn't be?"

"What, so he's the victim now? He's just misunderstood? Did you forget that he's a fucking Death Eater?"

"No, I dinnit, but it looked like 'e knew you jus' fine. Old friends?"

Sturges' glare deepened, bordering on hate.

"Let's make this perfectly clear, Fletcher, cause you seem a little fucking addled. Dolohov, and all of Voldemort's other followers are monsters, not worth any sort of regard. The things they did…would you think twice about giving back some of the terror and pain they spread? To feed them some of the dish they served to everyone else?"

"So that's why Dolohov 'ates you so much? What was it, Sturges? Starvation? Beatings? Unforgivables? Worse?"

"None of your business," spat the Auror.

"No, it is, 'cause Dolohov 'ad the chance to kill both me an' Harry, and wen' fer you 'stead? 'Ow bad does he wanna kill you, Sturges?"

The blazing hatred departed from Sturges' eyes, replaced with a cool mask of indifference.

"Well, why don't you ask him yourself? With all the waiting around we're doing, it won't be long before he comes to his senses and attacks us again."

"Look, Sturges is right," Harry pointed out, injecting himself into the conversation. "Even if Dolohov isn't on his way, the island's crumbling all around us, and isn't going to last long. Is there any other way off the island?"

The Auror shook his head.

"That was the only boat left."

"Well, what about the brooms? There has to be some on this island, right?"

"You want to fly back?" squeaked Dung.

"It's the best bet we have left," Harry argued.

Dung looked at him in disbelief. "A 'undred miles, 'n this storm? That's suicide!"

"And waiting around for this island to pull an Atlantis isn't?"

Mundungus had no retort.

"He's right, Fletcher," said Sturges. "I don't like the idea of going back into the prison, but we don't have much of a choice in the matter."

"Alright, Dung?"

The scruffy man's gaze dropped to the floor.

"Sure, fine," he muttered, less than enthused by the idea.

"Then it's settled," declared Sturges, before turning to Harry. "The brooms are back at the Auror Headquarters. We-"

His sentence was left hanging in the air as a tremor reverberated through the floor, sending the trio stumbling. A mighty crash soon followed, from the direction of the rear lobby.

"The bloody 'ell was that?" cried Dung, glancing upwards, as if expecting the ceiling to come down.

"Nothing good," Sturges said with grim certainty. The Auror pushed himself from the wall, before stalking towards the door, wand raised. "Cover me."

Harry and Dung both complied, taking positions behind Sturges. He threw the door open, his aches forgotten, and swept through the threshold.

"Bugger me," swore the older man, freezing in his tracks.

"What is it?" Harry asked, moving forward.

"See for yourself," said the Auror, his tone disgusted. Fearing the worst, Harry stepped into the lobby.

A yawning chasm stretched across the lobby, occupying the space once filled by gleaming floors. A marble ledge two feet wide framed the lobby's perimeter, the sole walking space left.

"You've got to be kidding me," breathed Harry, glancing downward. Fifty feet below the lip of the ledge lay the splintered wreckage of the information desk, heaped atop a chaotic jumble of marble tiles and stone blocks. Far beneath the rubble gleamed pockets of black water, reflecting the scant bits of torchlight which seeped through the wreckage.

"Well, 'ose brooms would 'ave come in 'andy now," spat Dung, coming to stand beside Harry.

While the collapse of the floor had been a blow, it had not been a crushing one.

"This doesn't change anything," Harry pointed out, scanning the narrow walkway wrapping around the room. The corners of the room held wide platforms, providing an easier path than a typical corner would have, more than large enough to catch one's breath. Not bothering to confer with the others, he stepped out from the safety of the entryway, onto the narrow ledge.

"What are you doing?" Dung hissed, but Harry ignored the man, instead placing his focus on the tile beneath him. It held his weight, without give. Encouraged, he turned back towards Dung and the Auror.

"I'll go across first, and come back with the brooms."

"The hell you will!" challenged Sturges, reaching out and latching onto Harry's arm.

"We don't have a choice," countered Harry, trying to squirm away from vise-like grip, but unable to break it.

"No, you're right about that. I'm just not letting some kid stick his neck out for me. You wait here."

"No fucking way," argued Harry. "I'm lighter, and-"

"I'm older, and more useless," concluded Sturges, relinquishing the hold on Harry's upper arm. "Besides, I need you to cover me until I reach the corner. If Dolohov attacks, I'm dead unless you're ready to sling a curse."

An objection on the tip of Harry's tongue, Sturges silenced him with a wave of his hand.

"We don't have time to argue about this. I'm going, and you're staying."

Unhappy with the verdict, but in full comprehension of the passage of time, Harry relented.

"Good luck, John."

The Auror took his blessing with a slight nod, before moving out to the ledge. His back facing the wall, he stuffed his wand into his pocket, before shuffling sideways across the narrow expanse of floor, his arms held outward for balance.

Six inches separated the scuffed tips of the Auror's boots and the steep drop into the abyss as he crab-walked across the narrow ledge. Despite his precarious state, his expression remained stoic, unworried.

Harry's eyes roamed across every inch of the room, his wand at the ready. Numerous doors lined the sides of the room, and at any moment Dolohov could burst through and try to finish the work he had started on Sturges' face.

Beneath Harry's watchful guard, Sturges navigated the ledge without issue. Though the path expanded and retreated, sometimes leaving his toes dangling over the abyss, Sturges never stopped until he reached the corner.

"Okay, your turn," said Sturges, withdrawing his wand. Harry nodded a single time, before turning to Dung.

"Watch my back, okay?"

"Yeh, sure," replied Dung. Though his eyes were wide, he did as requested.

Harry took a deep breath, before stepping out onto the narrow path. He blocked out thoughts of the long drop, and turned towards Sturges. Being smaller and lighter than the Auror, he began to walk straight ahead, shoulders level, his left arm brushing up against the stone wall.

"Harry, are ye barmy?" demanded Fletcher.

Harry chose not to answer, instead focusing on putting one foot in front of another. Perhaps it wasn't the safest way to traverse the ledge, but if he treated the walk as trivial, it blotted out the images of being splattered on the rocks below.

After all, he could do this. It wasn't that much different from flying a broom, being suspended a hundred feet above the ground. At least, the drop was the same.

He reached the platform without incident, sending a grin in Sturges' direction.

"Nothing to it, eh?"

"Yeah, maybe not for a young, arrogant twist such as yourself," grumbled Sturges, before turning towards the narrow ledge hugging the left side of the room. Before he could venture out, Harry grabbed the man's shoulder, freezing the Auror in place.

"Look, this is stupid. I'm the lightest, I should go first."

Sturges opened his mouth to argue, before he decided to let the issue go with a mild shrug.

"Normally my pride would speak up, but I'll let you have this round."

"Well, gee, thanks," said Harry with a grin, which was matched by the Auror.

The second walkway was a hair wider than the first, and just as sturdy. Not a single tile swayed beneath his weight, and the only obstruction in his path was a four-foot gap where the floor had fallen away.

"Be careful," urged Sturges. Ignoring the sound advice, Harry hopped across the narrow fissure. He landed with both feet, before raising both arms in a mock bow.

"Yeah, get going," Sturges growled, but Harry was already in motion, reaching the door leading to the Auror Headquarters without issue.

"Good. Your turn, Fletcher."

The color drained from Dung's face at the Auror's order.

"What, are you nutters?" he squealed. "Me, cross over that? Yer out of your mind."

"Fletcher, get your arse over here!"

"What, are you going to make me?"

Sturges' facial muscle tightened and his right eye twitched, as if he was attempting to backhand Dung with a blast of telekinesis.

"Do you want to be here by yourself when Dolohov comes back?" asked Harry, hoping to coerce Dung. Sturges was already prone to violent outbursts; having his one sure way of escape destroyed, as well as losing one of his prisoners, wasn't going to improve matters.

Thankfully, the comment struck a chord. Dung looked around nervously, as if expecting Dolohov to materialize in front of him.

"Fine," he spat, before stowing his wand and approaching the ledge. To Harry's surprise, he turned his back the abyss, before hugging the wall like a life-preserver. Eyes shut tight, he began to inch across the wall.

"Fletcher, are you serious?" queried Sturges, his tone dripping with disdain.

"Leave me alone!" Dung cried.

Harry shot Sturges a glare of disapproval. Dung had never been fond of heights, and discouraging words from the Auror were not going to improve the situation.

"Don't listen to him, Dung. You can do it. Just a little further."

Heartened by the encouragement, Dung began to move a little faster. He never opened his eyes, but he gained the platform in the corner without incident.

"I did it," he declared, opening his eyes. Sturges let out a derisive snort, before thrusting his wand back into his pocket and turning. He began to make his way across the second narrow pathway, closing the distance to Harry. His back pressed to the wall, he reached the gap without incident.

"Um, do you need help?" Harry blurted, without really knowing what he could do to improve the situation.

The Auror let out a noncommittal grunt, before placing his hands in the pockets of his robe and examining the fissure before him.

"Not so easy anymore, is it?" Dung called out with peevish glee.

Sturges let out a dry chuckle, before turning and spitting over the ledge. At once he drew his wand from his pocket and took a lunging step across the fissure. Harry sucked in a surprised breath, but the Auror crossed the distance with ease, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. He let out a mock bow of his own, before turning to Dung.

"Nothing to it. Your turn, Fletcher. Coming?"

The sour look upon Dung's face could have curdled milk, but he pressed forward, re-establishing his grip upon the wall and shimmying onward.

"Sometime before Azkaban crumbles would be nice," snapped Sturges as he stood beside Harry, wand in hand.

"You can bugger yourself!" yelled Dung.

Weariness filling Harry, he grasped Sturges' arm.

"What you are doing?" he hissed. "We've got enough to deal with. Do we really need to be fighting amongst ourselves?"

The Auror turned back towards him, his gaze hardening.

"This is a hard situation we're in, Potter. We don't have much time, and every single second we waste coddling that useless thief is a second where Azkaban slips further into the sea."

"Without that useless thief, Dolohov would have finished the job he started," Harry snapped back, his patience reaching its limit. "Did you forget that it was his hidden wand, the one you didn't want him to have, saved you?"

His ears turning red, Sturges opened his mouth to reply, but Dung's quavering voice cut him off.

"I…I don't know if I can do this."

Harry turned, to see Dung stopped a foot before the gap, his eyes wide with fear. Sturges rolled his eyes, but stayed mercifully silent.

"Yes, you can," he assured. "Just take a deep breath, and jump."

Mundungus remained motionless for a moment, before peeling himself from the wall. He turned towards the break in the path, his chest moving in and out as he took deep breaths. Not blessed with Sturges' height, he'd have to make a running jump of it.

"You can do this, Dung," assured Harry. "Say it: I can do this!"

"I…I can do this."

"Louder! I can do this!"

"I can do this!"

"Then jump over that fucking hole!"

A careworn grin spreading across his face, he began to run forward. Arms and legs pumping, he ran for several paces, before planting with his right foot on the crackled tiles. As his weight pressed down, the tile shifted, sliding downwards. Dung desperately fought against gravity's pull, but his momentum carried him forward. He crashed headfirst against the far edge.

For a fraction of a second Harry locked eyes with the terrified man, his arms scrabbling for purchase against the floor, before the weight of his lower body pulled him backwards and over the lip. Dung slid down the flat face for a few feet, before his legs struck a broken piece of rebar protruding from the wall. The obstruction cart wheeled his body, sending him hurtling through the air head-first. A scream erupted from the man's throat for a short moment, before his head struck a large chuck of stone. His cry was cut off as the crack of his broken neck echoed throughout the lobby. The rest of his body struck the rock with a sickening splat, tumbling down to become wedged between two stones.

Without thinking, Harry scrambled forward, to the lip of the pit.

"Sturges, we have to help him!" Come on, he-"

As Harry turned back towards the abyss, a large weight pressed down upon his back, pinning him in place.

"Harry, he's gone!"

"No he's not!" screamed Harry. "Let me go! He's just knocked out, his eyes-"

"Harry, look at him!"

Despite every inclination to the contrary, he did as ordered.

Only the upper half of Dung's body was visible, stuck between the cleft in the two large stones. His eyes and mouth were closed, as if he were resting. Hope for Dung was snuffed out as Harry's eyes shot upwards, to the concavity of the top of the skull, where it had been crushed with the impact against the floor. A splatter of blood and a thicker, lumpy substance was smeared across the stone he had collided with.

"H-h-he's gone," Harry choked, unable to run from the truth any longer.

"He is," Sturges agreed, from behind him. "Can I trust you to not do anything foolish if I release you?"

Still in shock, Harry could only nod. At once the weight pressing upon his back departed. How could this happen? The tile had been solid beneath his feet when he crossed. And besides, they had survived two fights with Dolohov. It wasn't right that a bit of bad luck had taken the last remaining link to the life he had known before Azkaban.

Harry barely felt it as rough hands grasped his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. He swayed for a moment before he was turned around, placed face-to-face with the Auror.

"Look, Harry, I'm sorry," Sturges said, his gaze determined. "But we don't have time to stand around. We have to get going."

"He…he shouldn't have fallen. I should have known…"

"No, it was bad luck," Sturges countered. "The world doesn't care about what's supposed to happen. Sometimes things just go wrong. There isn't any reason for it, they just do. All that matters is how you deal with it. And we have to get going."

Harry nodded numbly, before allowing himself to be lead through the doorway, back towards Processing.

As he walked down the familiar corridor, it occurred to Harry that the last they he came this way, there had been four of them, a quartet of unrelated survivors, trying to find a way off Azkaban.

Now only Sturges and himself remained.

"Come on," urged the Auror as he pushed the door open. He went to step through, only to stop in his tracks. The man let out a curse, before bringing up his wand.

The reaction broke Harry from his mental paralysis. He surged forward, wand drawn, through the threshold.

Processing was in shambles, as if someone had thrown a tantrum.

The wooden table on the right wall had been overturned, spilling stacks of pamphlets onto the floor. Shallow gouges marred one of the walls, where someone had smashed a chair repeatedly, scattering splinters and broken chunks of wood. The folding section of the counter had been broken in two, leaving clear passage to the rooms behind the counter.

"I guess Dolohov took out his frustration here," said Harry, glancing about the room. Seeing no signs of the Death Eater, he flicked his wand.

"Homenum revelio!"

"He's not here," he concluded, the Revealing Spell coming up negative.

"He's not in this room, you mean," the Auror said, motioning to the door behind the counter, which led to Personal Effects. It had been ripped off its hinges, the only door in the room with that distinction.

Harry and Sturges exchanged a glance. The hard line of the Auror's jaw was set in determination, and Harry knew, without asking, what was going to happen.

"Are you sure we should do this?" whispered Harry. The guard answered with a nod.

"Dolohov must be dealt with. Even if we find the brooms and make our escape, he could still shoot us out of the sky. We're not going to get a better opportunity than this."

As unappealing as the prospect of dueling against Dolohov might have been, Sturges was right.

"So how-"

Harry stopped mid-sentence as the Auror silenced him with a disapproving glare. Scowling, he turned towards the frame of the broken door, and flicked his wand towards it. A shimmering curtain of magic descended from the top of the entryway, filling it with a silver glow, before fading from sight.

"I've never seen a Privacy Charm like that," admitted Harry, impressed by the display.

"They were useful here, in the event of an especially vocal prisoner. Dolohov, if he's in there, won't be able to hear anything we say. How do you want to do this, Potter?"

At Harry's look of surprise, the Auror let out a dry chuckle.

"I'm just a guard, Potter, who hasn't had combat training since the Auror Academy, over fifty years ago. Since then the most I've had to deal with has been an unarmed prisoner. If all I've heard is correct, you've been fighting battles since day one, and fighting a war for most of your adult life."

"True," admitted Harry, seeing the Auror's point. "Well…can you cast a flare?"

A sharp nod was his response.

"Good. I'll conjure an illusionary construct and send it into the room. Hopefully he's paying attention to that, and won't be able to block your flare."

"You can make illusions?" asked Sturges, raising a single eyebrow in his direction.

"I can," admitted Harry, "though their not the most convincing thing in the world. I can't cast spells with it, and can only hope that it buys us the few seconds we need to take him out."

"We're assuming a lot of risk here. Are you sure this is the best way to do it? Smoking him out would be safer."

Harry grimaced internally, wondering why the fuck Sturges had asked him in the first place.

"And provide him with an advantage? One Bubble-Head Charm, and he has cover to attack us from."

"Fair enough, then. What about just using fire?"

Harry shook his head.

"Fire's too hard to control. Assuming that it wouldn't spread through the prison, I want physical proof that Dolohov's gone before I lower my guard. We burn this place out, he could be ashes and we'd be none the wiser."

"Fine," conceded Sturges with a nod. "Let's see what you can do."

Not wasting any time, Harry cut his wand across his body, an image burning in his mind. He focused all his attention up the visage, willing it to spring forth. As beads of perspiration broke out upon his brow, a vague, human-sized glow began to materialize. Panting with exertion, he recalled every single detail that formed his reflection.

From the grey glow a pale face emerged. Bright green eyes stared back at him, framed by dark, unruly hair. The forehead was blank, bereft of the lightning bolt-shaped sigil which had become legend, but every other aspect was a mirror image, down to the poor state of his dirtied prisoner garb.

"That impressive, Potter," complimented Sturges, walking around the illusionary construct with his arms crossed. With a hesitant hand, he reached out towards the doppelganger, prompting Harry to speak up.

"No, don't. My illusions aren't very strong, and physical contact will shatter them."

Sturges drew back his hand obediently.

"Look, I can't hold it that long," admitted Harry, fatigue settling into his mind. "I'll send it through, you get the flare."

"Do it then," urged Sturges as he waved his wand, causing the Privacy Charm to dissolve into cascading silver sparks.

Brow furrowed in concentration, Harry sent his illusionary self through the broken doorway. The figure followed his command, walking down the short hallway. Harry glanced to his right for a second, to see that Sturges had his wand at the ready. He took in a deep breath, before focusing on the illusion, strengthening his bond with it. Just before Personal Effects, the deeper link was established, giving Harry marionette-like control over the construct.

In full control, Harry jumped forward, slinging his wand across his body. The doppelganger followed suit, jumping into the small room, wand in motion. Sturges was already casting, a clear spell erupting from his wand. Invisible it flew, until it detonated inside the small room, destroying the illusion. Harry closed his eyes as light exploded, painting the world white.

He had hoped for a yell of surprise, a cry of pain, anything, but all that met his ears was silence.

Yellow spots danced at the edge of his vision as Harry opened his eyes. Without hesitation he charged forward, wand raised, into Personal Effects.

Floor space was at a minimum within the room. Most of the shelves had been pulled from the wall, spilling the drawers onto the ground. Clothes, papers, jewelry and wands poked out from the shattered wreckage. An empty black and white striped pant-leg peeked out from beneath a drawer, all that was visible of Dolohov's discarded uniform.

"Shite, he's not here," swore Sturges, before casting a Revealing Spell, which came up negative.

"We just missed him, then."

"Unless he's hiding in the back room," said Sturges, motioning to the unblemished door on the other side of the room.

Harry shook his head.

"The Revealing Spell would have come back positive if there was anyone in an adjacent room. Besides, look at the door…"

Where the entrance to Personal Effects had been demolished, the other door in the room hadn't been touched. The adrenaline in his blood fading, Harry took a step towards the door, to have the familiar cold creep back. It settled over his soul like a freezing rain, paralyzing him. In his mind he heard Marie screaming as she flailed in the acidic water. He saw the terror in Dung's eyes as the marble tiled beneath his feet, pitching him into the abyss.

"Potter, snap out of it!" yelled Sturges, shaking him with both hands.

"I should have saved him," breathed Harry. "I was the closest, I had the best shot-"

"Enough! It's done, forget about it!"

Sturges wrapped his arms around Harry, pulling him out of Personal Effects, back into the main Processing lobby.

"Are you going flaky on me, Potter?" the Auror asked, letting him go.

Harry let out a choked laugh.

"At least then things would start making sense."

"This isn't a fucking joke, Potter. If I don't have you thinking clearly, there's no way we're getting off this island."

"How can I think 'clearly'?" demanded Harry. "I'm stuck on Azkaban with a Death Eater, the ocean's rising, and it's made of acid. What the fuck do you want from me?"

"To start acting like you want to survive, and to stop blaming yourself. It was a short gap, one that Fletcher should have crossed without a problem."

"We could have Transfigured-"

"Stop! You know damn well Transfigurations don't hold on Azkaban."

Harry forced himself to swallow his reply. Sure, he fucked up, and should have caught Dung before he fell, but…

"Look, there's something wrong with that empty room behind Personal Effects. Whenever I even look at the door, it's like being frozen in ice. I can't move, I can't think, and I feel so scared…"

"Azkaban's a bad place, Harry," the Auror said, shaking his head. "Look, different things affect people in different ways. We don't have to go back there, let's just grab the brooms and head out."

Harry agreed at once. The larger the distance between himself and that room, the better.

Once back in Processing, Sturges led him on a path around the overturned table, to a door off to the right. Escape from Personal Effects had allowed the desperate cold to recede, allowing him to feel human again. The sting of guilt for his failure to save Dung was still poignant, but he felt like he could function at a basic level again.

"Why didn't that door bother you?" asked Harry as the Auror opened the door. The older man stopped with the door half-open.

"Why did it bother you?"

"How should I know?"

"Well there's your answer," the Auror stated with an air of finality, closing the subject.

Harry bit back a hot reply. The Auror might be an asshole, but at least he was on the same side.

Beyond the door was another hallway, with doors lining each side of the corridor. Portraits hung in heavy frames between each door, though they displayed naught but vague backdrops. With artwork this dull, it was little wonder that Sturges' disposition was so sour.

The Auror took the first door on the left. He opened it halfway, giving Harry the impression of a darkened office, before he shut the door, cursing under his breath.

"New here?"

"Senior moment," admitted Sturges without missing a beat, before trying the next door. This one he stepped through without hesitation. Harry followed, entering into a large room. The furnishings were sparse in the front of the room, save for two uncomfortable-looking chairs and a table piled high with back issues of the Daily Prophet. A counter stretched across the width of the room, behind which was a large steel cage, containing more brooms than Harry had ever seen in one place.

Cleansweeps, Shooting Stars and countless other brands of every make and size were suspended neatly upon metal racks. Sturges attempted to pull open the black bars of the cage, but the metal was unyielding.

"It's…it's locked," observed Harry. "Dolohov never got a broom!"

"It would appear not," the Auror agreed, before unlocking the cage with a whispered spell. "We don't have much time, just grab whatever you're most comfortable with."

Harry nodded in assent, taking a quick inventory. Cleansweep had really ramped up production since his imprisonment, as he saw the Cleansweep Nine, which wasn't even supposed to be out for a year, but he left the gleaming broom behind, moving towards the back of the storage racks. Though known for their maneuverability, he was hoping to find something with a bit more in the acceleration department.

At the back of the storage, he found it.

"Are you sure you can handle that?" asked Sturges upon seeing his selection.

Harry grinned widely in response as he held up his selection.

"I've been using once since I was thirteen. I practically grew up on one."

"We don't use them too often," admitted Sturges, glancing at the gleaming, aerodynamic broom. "We mostly use Cleansweeps when we're making our rounds about the perimeter. Best handling broom on the market."

"I'll take a Firebolt over anything."

Sturges shrugged as he went to close the gate back up.

"Well, can't blame you for wanting a little speed. You'll need it if Dolohov's trying to blast you out of the sky…"

The Auror trailed off for a moment, before shaking his head and continuing on.

"Speaking of which…we need to figure out how we're going to deal with Dolohov. Even with a Firebolt," he said, pointing to the broom, "Is useless if someone's sniping at you."

"You think he'll be able to see us at night, with all this rain?"

Sturges replied with a grim nod.

"Even if we Disillusioned ourselves, we'd still give off heat signatures. I'm certain that he'll have modified his sight to compensate for the poor visibility."

Upon second thought, Harry found himself agreeing. The act of changing one's vision spectrum was difficult, but a wizard of Dolohov's skill was sure to know how. Nonetheless…

"Why does it matter? Let him shoot at us, no one's aim is good enough to take out a speeding broom. Not even his."

Sturges shook his head.

"That's not how it works, at least not here. It's not common knowledge, but Azkaban's flight wards are airtight. To prevent aerial attack to the island, Azkaban can only be evacuated through specific holes in the ward, or 'choke-points'. He'll be able to line up the shot without a problem."

"Shite," swore Harry. "So this means we have to fight him before we escape."

"Wherein lies the problem, of course. How do you duel against one of the most dangerous wizards in the world?"

"You don't," answered Harry at once. "You catch him off guard, surprise him."

"Exactly. If I'm Dolohov, I want to be at the highest point on the island, so I can see in every direction. Dolohov won't know where the choke-points are, but he'll be keeping an eye out to see where we fly."

Harry wasn't familiar with the specifics of Azkaban's layout, but he did know that a tower was located at each of the four corners of the Abyss. He had never been up there himself, but recalled overhearing the guards complaining of long shifts in the open-faced tower, soaked to the bone by the driving rain.

"Well, that narrows it down, but only down to four places."

Sturges shook his head.

"They are not all the same height. The North Tower is thirty feet taller than the other three, and contains the spot with a clear view of the entire island."

"Can he even reach it? Last I saw, the door leading into the Abyss was closed, and Dolohov can't open it by himself. You even said it sealed the rest of the prison off."

"That was before I knew this island was sinking into the sea," pointed out the guard. "With the walls coming down around us, I'd be surprised if he wasn't already up there."

"Okay, fine. Say we reach this North Tower. Please tell me there's more than one way in."

Sturges nodded lightly, barely inclining his head.

"Each tower has a twin set of staircases going to the top."

The information heartened Harry a small measure.

"With two ways out, Dolohov wouldn't be able to personally cover each entrance."

"That he won't. I would imagine he'd probably have some sort of warning at the top, should he be caught unaware, but if we can get past that…"

"We need a distraction," concluded Harry, digging his mind for the answer. "Something to catch his attention long enough to sneak in…"

As he spoke, his gaze wandered over to the racks he had pulled his Firebolt from. A grin overtook his face as the vestiges of a plan began to take shape. It was risky, yes, but if they were to have any chance of beating Dolohov…

"You've got something?" the Auror asked, his gaze boring into Harry.

"Oh, I've got a couple of ideas."

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Author Notes:

I hadn't planned on ending the chapter here, but stopped halfway into my outline for the chapter. I thought maybe it'd be good to have at least one chapter end without a cliffhanger. So, because of the split, instead of eight chapters total, there will now be nine.

I estimate the next chapter will be out in three weeks, but we'll see what happens.

Thanks to Benny and Portus for the fantastic feedback on the earliest drafts of this chapter.

Thanks to T3t and PrincessCupcake for the beta work.

Thanks for reading. Any thoughts or questions, feel free to drop a review. I reply to every signed review that I receive, and appreciate each and every one of them. Unless you've turned off private messaging. In that case, I cannot reply.

6. V: Black Rain

Elizium for the Sleepless Souls

V: Black Rain

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After several arguments and revisions, the two survivors ironed out the final details of the plan. The risk was high, but of all the proposed ideas, it was the most likely to succeed.

Hopefully.

With the brand new Firebolt strapped to a harness on his back, Harry glanced back at the racks of brooms.

"Should we burn them?" asked Harry, before biting his lip, wondering himself if it was a good idea.

Sturges appeared to consider the question as he closed the door to Broom Distribution, the muted click echoing down the long, empty hallway.

"No," he eventually answered, shaking his head. "If Dolohov leaves the North Tower and chases us in the air, he'll have to hit a moving target while flying in a storm. He now has the advantage of attacking from a high, stationary position, an advantage he'd be foolish to give up."

Harry disagreed with the assessment, but kept his counsel to himself. They had a good plan, one that even had a reasonable chance of success, providing the Death Eater was holed up in the North Tower as predicted.

However, depending on Antonin Dolohov to act in a predictable manner was playing with fire.

The two survivors walked back to Processing in silence, their footfalls echoing in the empty corridors. Harry's eyes roamed over the damage as they entered, from the crippled wooden chair, to the bright pamphlets scattered about the floor.

Try as he might, he could not reconcile the careless nature of the damage with the cool, collected Death Eater. All the damage looked less like the actions of a deliberate, hardened killer, and more like a kid having a tantrum.

A scream of sheer terror cut through the air, banishing all thoughts of Dolohov.

"That's Mundungus!" screamed Harry, before rushing forward, his mind awhirl with chaotic thoughts. Had they been wrong in declaring the former thief as dead?

He leaped over the upended rack of Auror literature and threw open the exit. Before he could leave, the door slammed in Harry's face, sending him reeling back, vision swimming.

"Stop, it's a trap!" Sturges yelled, closing the distance between the two.

Harry tried to diffuse the blow with a shake of his head, but he was only dazed further, black spots crawling across his vision. He took one uncertain step before falling against the wall and tumbling to the ground.

Sturges caught up to him and began to shake him by the shoulders.

"Use your head, Potter! Fletcher is dead! We saw his head splattered on the rocks."

Each sentence was punctuated by a shake, sending waves of pain echoing through his skull, but allowing the world to come back into sharper focus.

"Let go!" snarled Harry, breaking free of the Auror's iron grip. For a moment, he raised his fist, as if to strike Sturges, but reason prevailed. His closed hand shaking, he lowered it to his side.

After all, Sturges was right. It was this type of shit that got Sirius killed.

Harry took a deep breath, in direct opposition to the pounding of his heart and chest.

"Okay. Watch my back."

He saw the Auror nod, before raising his wand and unlocking the door. Harry wasted no time, stepping through the threshold with his wand raised high. Every muscle was coiled, ready to spring at a moment's notice, but the hallway leading to the Main Lobby seemed clear.

Not willing to take any chances, he jabbed his wand forward. A ball of grey light rocketed forward, slamming into the door and blowing it off his hinges. Harry followed in the door's wake, wand out, sweeping the lobby. He paid no attention to the splash the door made when it hit the water, instead casting his gaze about the room, looking for any sign of trouble.

None presented itself.

Harry cast a quick Revealing Spell, which confirmed that he was only person in the lobby.

"Clear!"

At Harry's assurance, the Auror stepped beyond the threshold, joining him at the ledge.

"I don't get," admitted Harry, shaking his head. "It sounded like…"

He trailed off as he looked down, the words having caught in his throat.

The water level within the pit had risen several feet while they were gone, submerging half of the rubble. In the wet cleft between two large, sloping stones, floated a thick, red soup of lumpy consistency.

That was all that remained of Dung.

"He was dead," insisted the Auror, following Harry's gaze. "You saw the same thing I did."

Harry chose not to respond. He couldn't deny Sturges' words, especially not with the stain on the rock several feet out of the water's reach, where blood and brain matter clung to the wet stones. The place where Dung had landed head-first wouldn't last for long before being inundated, but for the next few minutes, his memories would be confirmed.

It was Mundungus who had screamed.

Which didn't make any sense. Someone must have mimicked his voice, but if so, why come into the lobby, scream and then run off? It didn't make any sense.

"Look, Potter, I don't know what's going on either, but we don't have the time to find out. We have to move. Now."

Without protest, Harry un-did the straps criss-crossing his back, releasing the Firebolt. The idea that Mundungus might have been alive that entire time, helpless as the acidic water rose higher and higher was one he just couldn't face right now.

That is, if he planned on thinking straight during the next critical juncture.

Lifting one leg over the broom handle, Harry kicked off from the ground, rising into the air. With the brooms in their possession, there was no way they would have to trust the ledge again. As he flew over the vast open pit, he tried not to think of the jagged rocks breaching the black waves, or what Fletcher may have been thinking as he laid helpless at the bottom.

Upon reaching the other side, he dismounted the broom with a fluid leap, before withdrawing his wand and scanning the room. Relieved of his watch, Sturges withdrew a Cleansweep Three and mounted it. The older Auror looked uncomfortable on a broom, unable to keep a straight line, but he landed without incident.

"Are you sure about this?" asked Harry, who glanced back across the pit, to the heavy bars drawn across the entrance to the Abyss.

Sturges nodded.

"Dolohov had to go the long way to gain access to the North Tower. We lower the gate, it will make it easy for him to go back and forth between areas. After all, we're depending on him being slow to respond to multiple attacks."

Harry didn't question the decision, but prayed they didn't find themselves trapped behind the bars, wishing they had opened them earlier.

Together they left the Main Lobby behind, going back into the cavern. The shadows were banished by Harry's wand light,while Sturges stood at the ready, prepared to attack if need be.

Venturing deeper into the cavern, Harry spared a single glance left, to the small, winding tunnel which led to the pier. Guilt hung heavy in his mind, the broken promise he had made Marie still fresh. It would have been the work of a second to save the quiet girl, but how could any of them have known that the sea was so caustic?

So many unanswered questions had died with her, that he was forced to set them aside, lest they drive him mad.

As the moisture-drenched cavern began to slope downward, Sturges took a right, leading them to another corridor branching away from the main freight path. Their way was lit by sputtering torches set into shallow stone alcoves, allowing Harry to extinguish his wand.

The path dipped down for about a hundred feet, before bottoming out in a shallow pool of water. Thick rivulets fed the large puddle, coming from the opposite direction.

"What do you say, Potter?" asked Sturges, staring apprehensively at the shallow basin. "Sea water or rain?"

Harry shrugged, before waving his wand in the air. The Transfiguration took hold at once, changing the pool of water into a smooth sheet of ice.

"Looks like rain."

"Good thinking, Potter," praised the wizened Auror, before making his way across the ice. Harry followed, his mind turning to the vandalism they found upon their second trip to Processing.

Something about the discovery just didn't sit well with him, like an itch just out of reach, or a crooked picture frame you just couldn't get to hang straight.

"What do you know about Antonin Dolohov?" asked Harry as they walked. Each of them took a side of the upward grade, avoiding the tiny river which flowed down the middle of the tunnel.

"Nothing that's not common knowledge, really. His family's from somewhere in Eastern Europe, but he's spent most of his life here in Britain. When he went to Hogwarts, he was sorted into Slytherin and graduated near the top of his class. He was positioned to rise high within the DMLE, but after having taken the Dark Mark, he was left on the losing side when Voldemort was defeated."

Harry had known all of that, including that fact that Dolohov had once been a promising recruit, one of the most talented duelists the Auror Academy had ever seen.

It was the finer details he was after.

"But what about him personally? I mean, did you two ever exchange words? What was he like?"

Sturges stayed silent for nearly a minute, carefully considering his words. When he did speak, it was with great deliberation.

"Azkaban affects everyone differently. I don't have to tell you that this is a horrible, wretched place. It's cold, unforgiving, and the constant presence of the Dementors is torture beyond even the Cruciatus…for most people, that is."

"It didn't bother Dolohov?"

Sturges shook his head.

"Not in the slightest. One would have thought he was at tea in his cell."

The truth of the matter became clear at once, the source of the animosity between the Auror and the Death Eater.

"You tortured him, didn't you?" he accused.

Sturges closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh before responding.

"Death Eaters aren't worth the regard you'd show a cockroach. The things they've done…they're not even human anymore. They all deserve to suffer, to live every moment in fear, in agony."

The Auror opened his eyes, keeping his gaze level as he continued.

"For most of them, the Dementors do the job. But day after day, when you see that Bolshevik piece of shit sitting in his cell, like he's on a fucking vacation…someone has to balance the scales, Potter."

"I guess being stuck in a dark closet in Azkaban for the rest of his life wasn't punishment enough," snapped an agitated Harry. Had Sirius been subjected to this same sort of abuse during his time in Azkaban?

"You of all people should know better," spat Sturges. "How much torment have they heaped upon you? Your family?"

A sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, Harry decided to swallow the comment. It was an argument they'd never see eye to eye on, and it would just waste more of their valuable time.

"Look," Harry said, running a hand through his hair, "I just wonder if maybe Dolohov would have been more apt to let us escape if he didn't have a personal vendetta to settle, but that's not what I'm getting at anyway."

"A Death Eater has never needed an excuse to kill."

"Fine, point taken," conceded Harry with a grimace, before forcefully trying to shift subjects. "You saw the rooms that were trashed when we went back to Processing. You said that Dolohov was calm, never angry. Was the damage in those rooms the work of a level-headed person?"

"No, but neither is blowing up your best chance of escaping this island."

"Unless escape isn't his primary motivation anymore."

Harry followed the statement with a withering look. Sturges scowled at him, but had no reply.

"How bad was it, Sturges? Was it enough to make vengeance more important than escaping?"

"I'm not a Healer, I wouldn't know," the Auror evasively replied. "Besides, what does it matter now? The boat's gone, Azkaban is sinking, and we're standing around talking."

"It's important because there might be someone else loose on this island! If they found Personal Effects, then they're armed too."

Sturges froze for a moment, becoming a statue, before shaking his head.

"Shite, you've got a point - I can't say you're wrong. Bollocks, it's possible. I did a sweep around the Abyss, looking for others, but that doesn't mean I found them all."

The howl of wind and rain grew more potent as he talked, filling the spaces between his words. Rain sluiced through the center of the tunnel in even greater amounts, creating a small torrent.

The storm was intensifying.

"If there's someone else on this island, there's not much we can do about it," Sturges concluded, beginning to walk again. "All we can do is stay alert."

That was, providing the unknown player didn't interfere with their plan.

Soon after they reached the mouth of the tunnel. Moisture glistened on the walls as they stared out into the dark of night. High-velocity winds and rain whipped at them.

"You can't tell because of this cursed storm, but there's a small shack out there, one of several scattered around the perimeter. We would warm up in front of the fires for a few minutes, before resuming our patrols."

Harry nodded in a non-committal fashion, not really caring one way or the other. The Auror was starting to grate on Harry's nerves, and the sooner they got this done, the better.

"Anything you need clarified?" asked Sturges.

"I hope not, since I came up with it."

"Good. Let's begin."

Harry was in motion before the words faded, slicing his wand horizontally. An arc of purple light fanned outward, slicing through a nearby boulder like it was paper. He levitated the sheared section into the air, setting it gently on the ground. His next spell bisected the stone section, leaving two identical halves, which he then Transfigured into clay, reducing the mass greatly.

Harry floated the larger mass of clay into the cave, depositing it on the ground in front of Sturges.

"Need me to do anything?" asked the Auror.

"Just stand still," Harry replied, staring at the pile of clay, trying to see into it, to more clearly see the shapes it hid. He inhaled deeply, before concentrating on the shape he wanted. He began to wave his wand, shaping the clay as it rose from the ground. Limbs sprouted from the writhing mass, coalescing into an exact outline of the old Auror's body.

There was no hair, or face to speak of, but in proportion it was correct, like someone's silhouette.

"That's impressive to have that sort of control," praised Sturges, glancing at the replica standing next to him.

"I had a good teacher."

"Looks like," he agreed, before producing a thick set of dark robes from the pack strapped to his shoulders. As the Auror began to wrap the cloaks around the golem, Harry turned his attention to the second slab of clay.

Transfiguring body shapes of specific people was difficult enough when the subject being copied was within eyesight; working from a mental image was far more difficult.

Which was exactly why Harry planned to cheat.

The curved stone wall of the tunnel flattened beneath his command, before draining of color. For a moment it shone like crystal, before his reflection filled the newly created mirror.

The visage of a small, scrawny man stared back. Unruly black hair streaked with white flecks of salt topped his head and his prisoner's grab was dirty, wrinkled and torn. Harry's reflection perfectly captured the hardship the night had inflicted.

Armed with an image of himself, he began to shape the remaining slab of clay, concentrating fiercely. Progress was slow, but from the soft mass, a scale-size replica had risen.

Sturges finished dressing his own doppelganger, before pulling the hood over its head, obscuring most of the blank face. The Auror stepped back to inspect his work. Apparently satisfied, he drew a second, smaller cloak from his pack and went to work on the other figure.

The robes hung loose on the frame, far too large for the body, but that was the point. With the wind pulling and tearing at the cloth, the fact that the golems were unmoving would be masked.

Leaving the Auror to his task, Harry Summoned a small stone from beyond the cave entrance. He held the smooth, bludger-sized stone in his hand for a moment, before kneeling down, placing it on the ground.

Harry whispered a spell, igniting the tip of his wand. It burned with a smokeless, concentrated blue flame. He wielded it like a quill, scratching Germanic runes in careful strokes. The ancient symbols glowed as he worked, before fading into the rock.

"I need it now," said Harry, turning his gaze towards Sturges. The man grumbled beneath his breath.

"Look, the Navigator needs a thaumologic link," snapped Harry. They had already been over the process, and why the Blood Magic was necessary.

"I know, you already told me," the Auror admitted, before trudging over. He raised his left hand above the stone, drawing the wand across his palm. Bright blood oozed from the wound, dripping through his fingers. The red droplets fell like a light rain upon the stone. As opposed to splattering off the smooth surface, the Navigation Stone absorbed the liquid, like it was thirsty.

"That's good enough," said Harry, prompting Sturges to draw back his hand, before healing it. "Give it a try."

Sturges gave a curt nod, before pointing his wand at the stone. Under his command, it rose into the air, made a loop and fell back to the ground.

"It worked," the Auror said, as if he couldn't believe it.

Harry snorted.

"Look, this isn't some evil Dark ritual. Blood creates a strong link between objects, and can allow far better control of remote objects. The Navigator wouldn't work without it. It'd just fall into the sea the second your attention wavered. Try out the brooms."

At once Sturges un-slung the two spare brooms from his back. He placed them side to side, several feet behind the Navigator. Harry linked the two brooms to the stone with a muttered spell, before turning to Sturges.

The Auror levitated the stone into the air, causing the two brooms to ascend. Back and forth the stone flew, causing the brooms to follow the same exact trajectory at a distance of four feet.

Harry felt a grin break out over his face, unable to stay it. He hadn't been sure that the linkage would work, even if the theory behind them was sound.

"Great work, Potter," said Sturges, giving him a hearty slap on the back. "What do you say we get these guys to work, and get us home?"

The two survivors went to work at once, propping the two clay golems aboard the brooms. They crouched forward, head lowered to prevent wind resistance, while Sticking Charms kept them glued to the seat.

"Think they'll stay?" asked Sturges.

"Long enough to do what we need," answered Harry, before casting two Warming Charms on his clay self. Forced to keep watch through a severe storm, in all probability Dolohov would be using some sort of heat-signature spell to peer through the rain.

Warming Charms never lasted long, but the plan didn't require that they did. Should everything go according to plan, it'd be over within ten minutes.

"This might just work," said Sturges, looking at the twin figures floating upon brooms. Even at a standstill the bulky robes provided just enough cover to hide the defects of the golem.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I'm serious, Harry," Sturges insisted, turning towards Harry. "We got thrown into a shitty situation, but we're minutes away from climbing out. We can do this, Potter,"

Once finished, he held out his hand. Shrugging, Harry took it.

"I sure hope so," he replied. "You need me to take care of the Disillusionment Charms?"

Sturges shook his head.

"No, get into position, I'll take care of the rest."

Harry nodded a single time, before reaching up and rapping himself on the head. The familiar sensation of a cold yolk of egg rolled down the back of his neck as the charm took hold, his clothes and exposed skin shifting to the color of night.

"Alright then. Best of luck, Sturges."

"And good luck to you, Potter," the man said. "I'll see you at the tower."

With a nod, Harry threw a leg over his Firebolt and raced out of the tunnel, into the raging storm.

Wind and rain battered against Harry's cloak, forcing him to fight for every inch. Even with the Impervious Charms upon his glasses, visibility had shortened to less than a foot. Drawing his wand, holding tight to the broom with his left hand, he whispered a spell.

At first there was nothing, but after a few moments a faint gray glow began to emit from the tip. Second by second the light brightened, pushing back the curtain of darkness. The Thief's Guide illuminated a vast expanse of black stone to his right, which climbed upwards, disappearing into the gloom.

As a way to light one's path, there was no finer spell than the Thief's Guide. It was a conjured light invisible to others, but it came with a price. The spell took almost thirty seconds to form, and required the same amount of time to wind down, before any other magic would channel through the wand.

He moved to within a foot of the high cliff face. Dolohov had the high ground, providing an eagle eye view of the island and Harry hoped to hide by sticking close to the rocky terrain. He flew along the shore, traveling in a counter-clockwise trajectory around the island, towards the north side.

From behind him a bright light flashed, bathing everything in harsh white light. Harry started to bring his wand up, before the jagged roar of a thunderclap echoed through the air, so close it rattled his teeth within their sockets, filling his skull with ringing pain. Agony ripped through his head as he rose upward, until the overhang atop the walls of the Abyss stretched overhead, providing temporary reprieve from the storm.

Water had infiltrated every piece of clothing, saturating each stitch of cloth. All he could do was let the rain sluice from his clothes, not daring to cast a Warming Charm. There was no telling what sort of magical detection Dolohov had in place. This close to the end, there could be no more false moves, no more unnecessary risks.

Shivering as the wind continued to beat at his cold, soaked body, he turned the broom around, facing towards the sea. By the Thief's Guide he saw violent waves crash and fall, only to be thrown back into the air again.

The more time Harry spent thinking about the entire situation, the more far-fetched it seemed. You didn't use the collective power of a thousand mages to Transfigure the entire ocean. If such large-scale feats were possible, you'd channel it into a magical blast large enough to blast Azkaban off the map.

Not turn the entire fucking sea into a chemistry experiment.

All he was left with were guesses, each new idea more wrong than the last. It was like a chimpanzee trying to figure out how a television was made.

Deep in thought, he maintained his watch, looking for any distortions in the night air. Sturges was supposed to circle the island in the other direction, entering the Abyss through one of the collapsed sections.

So where was he?

As the minutes stretched on, worry began to gnaw at him. Had something gone wrong?

Feeling their plan disintegrate around him, he re-doubled his efforts, ceaselessly scanning the dark of night, but all he was rewarded with was an ever-increasing headache.

Wondering if he needed to improvise, he spied a brief, unnatural shift of the night, as if the night were alive. Or two Disillusioned figures making their way through the Azkaban Anti-Flight wards.

Sturges had come through.

No sooner had he picked the distortion out of the air, a blue spell cut through the black night. The aim was perfect, slamming directly into the pocket of shimmering space. Sturges' doppelganger detonated in a spray of clay fragments and scraps of cloth.

As the debris fell from the air, splashing into the sea, an explosion echoed through the dark, coming from the upper parapets of the North Tower. Broken masonry and mortar rained from the sky.

Once the debris was clear, Harry leaned forward, causing the broom to follow suit. He pulled upward on the shaft, barely feeling the raindrops as he flew upward. The tip of his broom pointed at the sky as the worn, weathered stone of the tower flew by. Both wind and gravity tore at his heavy cloak, but Harry merely tightened his grip on the shaft and gritted his teeth.

Water ran into his eyes, he gained the top of the tower. He slowed down just enough to make a hairpin adjustment, before pulling down on the handle. Forces tearing at him, he hurtled through the wide, open end of the seaward side of the North Tower.

A cascade of sparks ignited as he passed the threshold, unleashing a wide arc of magical energy. The wave of magic washed over him, and suddenly he was plummeting. The Firebolt dropped like a stone, its nose tilted towards the ground. A dry snap echoed through the air as he was thrown from the shaft, sent tumbling end over end, before smashing into the opposite wall shoulder-first.

Pain exploded through his upper body as the impact jarred his wand loose, sending it skidding across the wet stone. Shaking off the pain, he scrambled after the wand on his hands and knees, splashing through the thin film of water. A cocoon of slowly fading gray light haloed his wand, making it stand out against the dark stone.

Harry scooped up the eleven inches of holly and whipped it towards the east stairwell. His heart thrummed violently in his chest, fully expecting Dolohov to emerge from the stairway, flinging curses. The Death Eater must have heard the makeshift Anti-Flight Ward detonate.

At once he bent down, picking up the broken broom. The red shaft had split into three jagged pieces upon impact, completely demolishing it. Hurriedly he tossed the splintered wood out the window.

As the seconds dragged on, Harry whipped his gaze back and forth between the twin stairwells leading down from the North Tower, but saw no trace of Dolohov.

Where the bloody hell was he?

Despite the chill of the night, Harry began to sweat as he backed into a darkened corner. The Disillusionment Charm did its work well, swathing him in shadow. Hidden from view, he turned his gaze towards the east stairwell, just in time to see the gaunt form of Dolohov ascend. He moved in complete silence, prowling like a cat.

Harry's breath froze in his chest as the gleaming, dark eyes scanned the corner. The haunting gaze stared directly at him for the briefest of moments, before moving on. Not daring to breath, Harry watched Dolohov cross the small lookout area and begin his climb down the opposite staircase.

After several tense moments, Harry let out a deep, burning breath. If he hadn't disposed of the broken broom, Dolohov surely would have found him. As recent history had proved, he wasn't going to win a duel against the seasoned fighter.

The element of surprise was the only thing he had going for him.

Cutting his wand in a low arc, he Transfigured the stone floor into black ice. If Dolohov hadn't heard the ward detonate, he might still think himself alone, and show less caution. Now if only Sturges would get his arse in gear.

With two entrances into the North Tower, Dolohov wouldn't have been able to cover them both. Aside from directing the twin clay golems upon their brooms, Sturges also needed to make an assault upon one of the doors. Though presumably warded with heavy-duty defenses, all that he needed to do was distract the Death Eater.

Harry would take care of the rest.

Hopefully, anyway.

Just as the thought struck, a loud blast rang out. The stone beneath his feet rumbled from the concussion, rattling his teeth. Coiled and ready to strike, Harry crouched in the corner, wand held tightly.

At a sprint Dolohov exploded from the darkness below, rain flattened gray hair sticking to his head. He paid no heed to the floor, jumping the last few steps. He landed hard on the icy surface, only to have his feet fly out from under him. With a total lack of grace, Dolohov crashed back to the ground, landing flat upon his back. The impact forced the air from his lungs in a grunt, but he still scrambled upright.

Just not fast enough to avoid Harry's Disarmer.

The crimson spell tore the wand from his grip, blowing Dolohov backwards. He struck the wall with a crunch, before sliding down it, to a sitting position. His breath wheezed as he tried to regain his breath, hunching over.

"Don't move," warned Harry, stepping forward as he pocketed the Death Eater's wand. Disbelief ate at him as he stared down at the gasping, grey-haired man, unable to believe that it had been this simple.

"I…I….I'm n…not going…anywhere," he wheezed, still trying to regain his breath. No sooner had the words left his mouth, he rolled to the right. Harry launched a Stunner, but it just missed him, slamming into the stone. Dolohov, flat on his stomach, pushed off with his hands and feet, allowing a Body-Bind to pass harmlessly by.

How could an older man be this fucking quick!

Dolohov leapt to his feet, before charging towards Harry. The distance between the two combatants closing, Harry spun his wand in a quarter-circle, before jabbing it forward. A foot between him and Dolohov, a wave of force erupted from his wand. The Death Eater was lifted into the air and slammed against the opposite wall with a thud. Pressing his advantage, Harry quickly conjured a length of rope and animated it.

The rope caught Dolohov in the air and began to wrap around him. He fought, but the blow turned his movements sluggish. In short order his arms were at his sides as the coil wrapped around him, tightly binding him. He struggled for a moment, before giving up, and moving his gaze to Harry.

"The longer you stay still, the longer you live," he warned, wand pointed at Dolohov's heart. Any Transfigured or Conjured objects had a short life-span on Azkaban, and he'd have to find an alternate method of restraining the Death Eater before long.

The Death Eater let out a dry chuckle.

"I do not think any of us will be living very long, Mister Potter. Least of all myself."

"Like I said, I'm not going to kill you if you cooperate."

"Ah, but it is not you I am worried about. Even if left with no other alternative, we both know you may hesitate to kill a defenseless prisoner."

Harry picked up on the implications at once, prompting him to run a hand through his wet, matted hair.

"Look, it's not like I'm saying the stuff Sturges and the other guards did to you was right, but…"

He trailed off, not knowing how to finish the statement. What could he possibly say to sway the Death Eater's opinion? And did it even matter?

To his surprise, Dolohov let out a wry, secret smile.

"Oh, is that what he told you?"

"Well, he wouldn't go into specifics," replied Harry, a trifle defensively. "But it doesn't matter. Sturges put his life on the line several times to get us out of here. I trust him."

"Oh yes, sending you off to storm this tower while he provided a distraction was a brave act indeed. Tell me, what would you have done had I used the other stairway? Without the element of surprise, you would have fallen quickly."

"And Sturges stood toe-to-toe with you," Harry pointed out.

"Before I destroyed the ship, he did. The game has changed since then, you just haven't realized it, Potter."

Harry did not respond immediately. It was obvious that Dolohov was trying to cast doubt upon the Auror, but why bother? Did he really think Harry would take the word of a Death Eater at face value?

Continuous blasts shattered the uneasy atmosphere, as Sturges began to rain spells upon the warded tower entrance. The stone beneath their feet began to vibrate with the detonations.

Dolohov, his gaze aimed towards the nearest staircase, turned his cool glare back at Harry.

"You have your wand, which means you visited Personal Effects."

He nodded a single time in response, wondering where Dolohov was going.

"We did. We also found the uniform you left behind."

"Did you now?" mused the Death Eater. "So you are sure it is mine?"

"Well, who else's would it be?"

"Someone who did not have to pick splinters from their leg," he answered. Bound tight by the rope, he writhed against the ground like a worm, before turning over, to display what his long robes had hidden.

The pale flesh beneath was pitted and gouged with half-healed wounds, many of them still seeping small traces of blood.

Harry's eyes widened as he thought of the dirty uniform found upon the floor of Personal Effects. Unclean, yes, but there had been no shredded fabric, or bloodstains upon the material.

Back in his cell, he remembered the curse which had slammed into the door, spraying wooden shrapnel at Dolohov's legs.

"Shite!" swore Harry. Was the Death Eater right? Had Sturges been playing him the entire time?

Over the howl of the storm, Harry heard boots pounding upon the stone steps, growing closer.

Sturges had broken through.

"No, it must have been someone else," concluded Harry, shaking his head in denial. "Why would he help us try to get off the island if he was a prisoner? No, we must have missed someone, the same person who tore apart Processing."

"There is no one else!" insisted Dolohov, his calm demeanor cracking. "This is not a game anymore, Potter! You have to remember!"

"Remember what?"

"The stable!"

Harry froze at the mention of the second word. His mouth opened in shock as the veils of memory parted.

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Rough hands grasped at him, dragging him from the blackest of nightmares.

"It's time to wake up, Mister Potter," a high, sugary voice sang.

Harry closed his eyes against the light of torches, realizing he had it wrong; The horrors visited upon him during slumber were dreams.

This was the real nightmare.

Umbridge's escort, Aurors most likely, each had an iron-grip upon his upper arm, literally carrying him down the hallways, leaving his feet to drag on the wet, cold floor.

"You are a difficult nut to crack," admitted Umbridge, her voice coming from ahead of him. She led the sad procession, which possessed five sets of footfalls upon the damp stone. Most likely Umbridge, the two Aurors lifting him along, and two more guards bringing up the rear.

As his eyes began to adjust to the light, he took in his surroundings. Umbridge was clothed in a fluffy pink cardigan which clashed horribly with the drab décor of Azkaban. Just as suspected, four crimson-robed Aurors were in the envoy, their faces grim, betraying nothing.

"But we have the benefit of time," continued the old, toad-like woman. "Where you do not."

"You could always just use the Cruciatus again," suggested Harry, his nerve-endings still aching from last week's exposure to a prolonged 'interrogation' session. "Just hold it a little longer his time. Once my mind breaks, I won't have to parcticipate in yours games anymore."

"Oh, you're far too valuable to throw away in such a manner. No, physical torture doesn't appear to accomplish anything other than eating time. It's time to try something a little…different."

The smug, self-satisfied tone in Umbridge's voice set off warning bells in his mind. What did they have planned for him?

Dragged along the corridor, he searched the cells, hoping someone, anyone, would be able to offer the smallest bit of aid, but all he saw were thick doors and darkened shapes hunched within.

Help down in the depths of Azkaban was a myth. No one brought undue attention to themselves during this reign of terror.

Through unfamiliar rooms he was dragged, passing a large atrium, offices and endless closed doors before finally ending up in a small room. Every inch of the wall-space was occupied by shelving with wooden drawers set into them.

"I do hope this proves to be educational," Umbridge said, before leading him through the other door in the room. "This is the Stable."

The new room was dark, lit by scant torchlight. Rows of stalls four feet wide took up the room, around a hundred in all.

In each stall was a person standing.

Each person, young or old, male or female, had wide, staring eyes. Unblinking, vacant, they stared straight ahead, never moving. Through simple burlap robes the sharp edges of emaciated ribs, elbow and hands were skeletal, the only movements shallow, barely perceptible breaths.

"This is where those beyond any hope of rehabilitation. The worst of the worst, Potter, who are too dangerous to keep confined to a cell."

Fear filled Harry's mind as the truth hit home. Each and every one of these people's stares were so vacant because their souls had been eaten, obliterating all that person was.

The same fate Umbridge had in mind for him.

"Each and every one of these criminals represent an intractable threat against Britain," she continued, reveling in his dread. She pointed to a nearby man. Loose flesh hung from his limp arms, while beady eyes stared unblinkingly forward.

"This was the Mad Muggle, Carl Mossberg. I'm sure you've heard of him, and how he attempted to destroy the Ministry with a Muggle explosive device."

Umbridge moved on, not waiting for an answer. She pointed with a thick, sausage-like finger, to a tall, stooped man with thinning hair.

"John Sturges was a little before your time, but for the five years he served as Hogwarts janitor, he preyed upon the male, Pureblooded populace. He was finally caught after adding murder to his many acts of pedophilia, to cover a shoddily-cast Memory Charm…"

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The force of the repressed memory was so strong that it nearly knocked him over. Gasping, he fell against the cold, damp wall. He barely felt the impact as his shoulder collided, still in shock at what he had seen.

John Sturges, the man who Harry had trusted his life with, was a murderous pedophile.

Dolohov's mouth moved, spitting out words, but Harry comprehended nothing. The 'Auror' had received the Dementor's Kiss, the most severe punishment a criminal could earn in the Wizarding world. How was he still alive?

The memory was as clear as a freshly-taken photograph. Inside the narrow stall, a gaunter, thinner version of Sturges had stood. The eyes had been empty, the unblinking stare of a body forcefully parted with its soul.

So how…

"Potter, you did it!" yelled Sturges as he emerged from the stairway, a wide grin on his face, his Cleansweep strapped to his back. The smile froze, before falling away at Harry's shocked expression. "What happened?"

As soon as the word left the older man's mouth, Harry whipped his arm up, a spell beginning to form on his wand.

Unfortunately, the wide grin had been a ruse. Before his arm had even reached shoulder-level, Sturges' spell had left his wand.

The imposter's Disarmer took him in the chest, ripping the wand from his fingers. He was tossed through the air, his lower back slamming into the window's ledge, before falling backwards. A scream formed at the back of his throat as he began to fall, hands scrabbling for purchase.

Rain beating down upon him, an invisible force grabbed his ankle and yanked backwards. His head bounced off the stone as he was pulled back into the tower and dumped upon the floor. Confusion settled over his mind as he looked up at the frowning older man.

"You…you saved me…" he whispered.

"I did," confirmed Sturges, before turning to Dolohov. "Have you been filling Potter's head with poison?"

Fury contorted Dolohov's features as he struggled against his Conjured bonds.

"No, you came back before I could tell him about what you did to Randall Nott," he snarled. "Or are you going to deny that too?"

"Not at all," replied the Auror, bringing up his wand. "After all, the truth is what we make it, isn't it? Farewell, Antonin."

Harry could only watch in shock as Sturges thrust the wand forward, malevolent green light gathering at its tip.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The Killing Curse connected with the Death Eater's face. Shock permanently written upon the man's face, he collapsed to the ground, eyes open, unseeing.

"A shame, really," Sturges said, staring down at the bound corpse, before turning to Harry. "Well, I guess I stop pretending to be the weathered, veteran Auror."

"You…you're dead," whispered Harry.

Sturges let out a maniacal grin.

"I'm not like the rest of you," he explained. "Only the weak cattle would allow for a lowly creature such as a Dementor to steal their soul. A true hunter would not let go as easily."

Harry struggled to move, to rush Sturges, but was frozen in place by the same spell that had saved him.

"For twenty years I stayed within the Stable, watching, biding my time. And thanks to the evacuation, it came. Posing as an Auror, I could have made it back to England and slipped away."

Sturges' features contorted with rage as he reared upon Dolohov's dead body.

"But you just couldn't let go, couldn't you!" the older man screamed, before kicking at the dead body. Ribs cracked as the cadaver flipped onto its stomach. "Nott has been dead for thirty years! Let! It! Fucking! Go!"

Each scream was punctuated by a hard kick, jostling the cooling body. After the last kick, Sturges spun around on his heel. As if a switch had been flipped, all traces of rage fled, his calm demeanor restored.

"But, why cry over spilled milk, right? I had to make a new plan."

Sturges raised his wand, and Harry was lifted into the air. He tried to struggle against the spell, but it was if his entire body had been encased in concrete.

"Fletcher would have been worthless in a fight, so I needed to rid myself of him, which the decay of Azkaban provided for."

"You killed Dung!" screamed Harry, his mouth the only part of his body still useable.

"Indeed. You, I needed to take Dolohov out, a job which you performed admirably."

"We trusted you! We could have escaped!"

Sturges snorted.

"I'm almost seventy years old, Potter. A journey across the open ocean, in this storm, will probably kill me. No, I expect that I'll die tonight."

Sturges cut his wand down. Harry was turned in air, before flying across the room. His chest slammed into the ledge, laid across it, with his feet on the floor.

"No, you can't!" screamed Harry, painfully aware of how exposed his position was.

"I can, and I will," he replied, his voice moving closer. "You're a little older than I'd like, but it's not like I have many options."

Harry began to scream, desperately trying to break the spell's hold, but his efforts yielded nothing.

"Scream all you like, only the dead will hear you."

The footsteps closing to within a foot, Harry closed his eyes. Devoid of hope, he prayed for the end to come as quickly as possible.

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Author Notes:

Sorry for the cliffhanger, but when I planned the story as a whole, the cliffhangers were the only logical split points that emerged. Two more chapters after this, and an epilogue. Almost there.

I don't know when the next chapter will be up. It might take a while to finally tie together all the mysteries I've been hinting at, and I want to take the time to make sure I don't screw it up.

Thanks to BennyS for his valuable feedback on the chapter. He caught a lot of the more egregious logic faults. All that remain are my fault entirely.

Thanks to T3t, Everwyld and PrincessCupcake for the beta work.

Thanks for reading. Any thoughts, questions or complaints, feel free to drop a review. I read and respond to every signed review I receive, and deeply appreciate every bit of feedback.

7. VI: Hollow Doll

Elizium for the Sleepless Souls

VI: Hollow Doll

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The damp stone was cool beneath his chest, seeping through the thin material of his shirt. Rough hands grasped and pulled at his pants, dragging them down his legs. Harry tried to fight but it was like his entire body was encased in cement. Terror clouded his mind, a gibbering, terrified animal desperately searching for a way out.

Palms hard with calluses found each of his hips, gripping tightly. Sturges' inhalations were ragged, frenzied, audible over the pounding fury of the storm.

The lecherous, excited breaths pounded home the hopelessness of the situation. Sturges and himself were the only ones left on the island, and he was defenseless, at the mercy of a pedophile and murderer.

Harry ground his teeth together, all hope gone except that of a quick death.

From behind him came a loud crack. At once the hands gripping his sides fell away, and the pressure holding his entire body in place vanished. Before he could react to his freedom, a large weight collapsed atop him. Without thinking Harry squirmed out of the way, sliding across the stone. Backpedaling, he saw Sturges tumble off the lip of the window, collapsing upon the wet flagstones below.

The former prisoner slid into a sitting position, his back against the wall, his face turned at an unnatural angle to the wall. Thin shards of splintered bone protruded from his broken neck, splitting the skin in rivulets of dark blood.

Harry stared uncomprehendingly at the still body, unable to fathom what happened. They were the only two people left on Azkaban, how could-

"I believe thanks are in order."

The familiar voice broke Harry's paralysis. At once he spun to the center of the room, where Dolohov stood, his wand held casually. Rain drenched his robes, tattered remnants of the Conjured ropes clinging to the fabric, but the Eastern European bore no visible mark from the Killing Curse he had taken moments ago.

"How…he…you're dead!" whispered Harry, replaying the scene in his head. He had seen the green curse strike home, had witnessed the light die within Dolohov's eyes as he slumped to the ground.

"Death is a relative term here," answered Dolohov, before dropping his cool gaze to Harry's lower half. "Pull up your trousers."

Numb, he did as commanded. Without a glance back Dolohov stalked forward, towards Sturges' body. He lashed out with a boot, connecting with Sturges' shoulder. The body slumped to the ground, revealing the impostor's face.

"What do you say, John?" asked Dolohov as he knelt down before the broken-necked figure. To Harry's shock and dismay, Sturges' eyes opened, and his mouth began to move.

"F-f-f-"

Dolohov cut his wand down. Sturges' teeth clamped together at once, the clack of enamel rolling out over the night air. He shook his head from side-to-side, but was helpless as his teeth lost their definition and began to run together, forming one solid mass. At an upward wave, the mass solidified. Sturges began to rock his head back and forth, muffled cries emitting from his mouth.

"Upon second thought, I have little interest in hearing more of your delusions. Nor in hearing your screams."

The wand flicked again, and a ball of orange light shot outwards. In his prone position, Sturges was helpless as the spell collided with his crotch in a splash of blood. Unable to scream, the man's face grew a bright red, his eyes rolling up to the whites.

"That was for Randall!" spat the Death Eater. "Do you ever think about him? Do you still hear his screams?"

Harry stared down at Sturges, and at the spreading pool of blood beneath him. If not for Dolohov, he'd be…well, in a place best unimagined. But why? Why would a Death Eater go out of his way to help him?

"T-thank you…"

"I did not need an excuse to torture this pile of human waste…but nonetheless, you are welcome. Blood must be repaid in blood, after all."

He acknowledged Dolohov's statement with a nod, but still perplexed by his actions. The Eastern European was acting like coming back from the dead was but a minor feat, something anyone could do during afternoon tea.

"Look, er, Dolohov…do you know something I don't? Because I'm not used to people other than myself just getting up after taking a Killing Curse."

The Death Eater's eyes narrowed at Harry's statement.

"When are you going to wake up?!"

A snarl upon his face, Dolohov knelt down. He cut his wand across his body. Like a blade it cut through Sturges' neck, slicing deep into the flesh. A gout of blood leapt from the ragged wound, spilling down the front of his robes. Jumping to his feet, Dolohov marched towards Harry, who took an involuntary step backwards.

"Does he look dead to you?" Dolohov demanded, his face inches from Harry's. "Does he?"

Harry averted his gaze from Dolohov's furious eyes, to the crumpled form of John Sturges. Despite a broken neck and a throat slashed almost to the bone, his lungs continued to pull in breaths, the chest moving up and down with each inhalation.

"H-he should be dead. Is that why the Dementor's Kiss never worked on him?"

The Death Eater let out a mocking guffaw.

"It is a small wonder the Dark Lord spoke so lowly of you. Sturges can believe any truth he wants, but that still doesn't make it reality. We are outside the standard definitions of life and death, Potter. You've hidden from the truth for long enough. Wake up, Potter, once and for all. Stop running from the truth."

Harry opened his mouth in protest, to claim that he had no idea what was going on, but a penetrating cold lit into his chest, independent of the night's chill. As much as he wanted to run from the knowledge, the veil of memory parted once again, revealing its secrets.

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Helpless, Harry was dragged. Like a proud mother Umbridge continued to show off members of her macabre gallery. Her thick, sausage-like index finger pointed and pointed, the names blending together, becoming non-descript.

"But I do believe the point has been made," said Umbridge, turning around to face him. "Threats to the well-being of our nation are unforgivable, and thus the punishment must be equal to the crime."

The two masked Aurors escorting Harry moved quicker than his eyes could track. His legs were swept out from under him, and he was forced downward. Pain exploded in his knees as he was forced into a kneeling position.

Trying to ignore the agony in his knees, he heard the door at the other end of the room creak open. Cold air began to fill the room, seeping through his damp uniform. His breath took physical form as the puddles of moisture upon the floor began to cloud with the first hints of frost.

A figure shrouded in black cloth glided through the doorway. No steps were taken; rather, it appeared to almost float as it approached Harry.

A Dementor, the silent vigils of Azkaban. The final card that the Ministry had to play.

Nightmarish imagery flood his head as it approached: Cedric's blank-eyed stare in the shadow of the Riddle Manor; Sirius' arms flailing as he fell backward into the veil; Dumbledore's robes and beard alight as the Fiendfyre consumed him.

Harry barely felt the blow when it came, only vaguely registered that his perspective was shifting, almost drunkenly. Stupidly, he looked around, to see a baton smash down upon his splayed fingers with a crunch.

The pain was immediate, far more intense than the blow to his head had been. It brought the world into sharp focus, pushing back the imagery.

Umbridge stood above him, mouth stretched into a leer, hands upon her wide hips.

"Hem hem. Listen very carefully to me, Mr. Potter. The Ministry has grown weary of your lack of cooperation, your insolence. You consider yourself invaluable, untouchable, but you greatly overestimate your own self worth."

Harry closed his eyes at her words, knowing what her next ones would be. It had taken them long enough, but finally the end had come. All that remained was to stay strong.

Something smashed into the side of his face, rocking his head to the side. He spat a mouthful of blood, before opening his eyes back up, keeping his facial expression neutral. Eyes narrowed, an increasingly irate Umbridge continued her spiel.

"No one is above the Ministry, Potter. No one. Even someone as famous as yourself deserves to be punished when compromising the security of Britain."

"We're trying to save it," Harry pointed out.

"You are hindering our efforts!" spat Umbridge. "The Ministry is more than equipped to deal with this problem!"

Unable to help himself, he let out a weak chuckle.

"I don't think anyone is exactly 'equipped' to deal with the problem Voldemort presents, myself included."

"The Ministry will triumph, Potter, with or without your help! The only question here is whether you're willing to help us."

Memories dredged from the darkest corners of his mind played before his eyes, conjured by the proximity of the Dementor. While a selfish, scared part of him begged to accept Umbridge's offer, his conscience held more sway.

"No," came his answer, followed by a heavy swallow. Just two letters, but it had been one of the hardest words he'd ever uttered. All his life, friends, family, loved ones had died to preserve him, so that he would continue to fight Voldemort.

Harry had every intention of reciprocating on the bravery of his fallen comrades.

"Very well then," replied Umbridge, as if she'd almost expected his answer.

At her words the towering monstrosity crept forward, closing the distance to a foot. The temperature plummeted as it did, causing shivers to wrack Harry's emaciated frame. With slow, ponderous movements, the dementor reached up with bloated, dead hands, and pulled back its hood, revealing a face devoid of eyes or nose. The only feature upon the canvas of white, dead flesh was a wide mouth devoid of teeth, opening wider with each passing second.

Tormented by the most poignant of his demons, Harry wanted to run, to fight, to do anything, but he was frozen in place, unable to move.

Above him the dementor drew itself up slightly, before beginning to inhale. Bitter cold settled deep within Harry. It seeped through his skin, on through his blood, to settle within his bones. It burnt worse than the hottest fire, bit more than the rustiest sword, like he was being burned from the inside out.

The gaping maw grew wider and wider, until the darkness crowded in on all sides, blotting out the barest hint of light. Sanity fraying, he tried one final heave to escape the creature's grasp, only to find that he couldn't feel his body.

Just the cold.

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The strength drained from Harry's legs, dumping him to the floor. He barely noticed the impact, his mind still too occupied with the memory to process any further information.

He was dead. Soul eaten.

Harry tried to say something, anything, but he found there were no words to form. It was like falling off a cliff and trying to scream, but moving too quickly to take a breath.

He was dead.

"Get up, Potter," urged Dolohov, reaching down a hand. Harry gave it a blank stare for a moment, before dropping his gaze down to the floor. Why continue to fight? Why continue to do anything, for that matter?

Undeterred, Dolohov reached down and grabbed Harry, pulling him to his feet. He dragged him to the nearest ledge and sat him down. Harry swayed slightly, but managed to keep himself upright.

"It is a lot to take in, but the truth cannot be denied."

Harry shook his head. He felt the damp stone beneath him, leeching heat from his body, but all else was numb. Even putting together two thoughts was an exercise in futility, as if his brains had leaked out his ears.

"Crucio!"

All thoughts of freezing cold and death fled at once. Agony flared upon every inch of flesh. Harry opened his mouth to scream, only to have the Cruciatus Curse leave as quickly as it had arrived. Wincing, Harry turned to see Dolohov lower his wand.

"What in the bloody fucking hell are you doing?" screamed Harry in anger, reaching for his own wand. Too late he remembered that Sturges had already taken it.

"Good to see you are capable of speech again," replied Dolohov with indifference, before withdrawing Harry's wand and casually tossed it. He lunged after it, snatching the holly shaft from the air. Catching it, he leveled the wand at Dolohov's chest.

"All of your troubles seem insignificant in the face of the Cruciatus Curse, yes?"

Scowling, Harry lowered his wand. As much as he hated to admit it, the use of the Unforgivable had broken through the barrier of shock. Dolohov seemed to approve of his decision, giving a single curt nod.

"Good that you agree," he said, before turning towards the sea, where the rain and wind continued to howl. "I too initially fought against the truth. Even when face-to-face with someone I knew to be long gone."

Dolohov through a murderous glance at the Auror impersonator, before turning back to Harry.

"Well, two people, including yourself. I told myself that somehow Sturges had never felt the kiss of the dementor and that indeed I was a prisoner trapped on Azkaban, forced to deal out the justice the Ministry failed to. Only when I saw the ocean eat that girl did the truth become impossible to ignore."

"Marie…her name was Marie," Harry whispered, thinking of her naivety, how clueless she was. That wasn't right though. He had been equally lost, with no real idea of what was happening.

Not that the current situation was much clearer.

"So if we're all dead anyway, what does it matter?"

Dolohov shook his head, turning to look at Harry.

"Did you have this same thought as the Cruciatus Curse flayed you? Did perhaps this Marie think the same thing as the water itself dissolved her? Because I do not."

The Death Eater's words struck Harry. While being far from conclusive on the matter, the Wizarding view of the afterlife didn't seem to suggest further struggle. He supposed this place could have passed for the muggle version of Purgatory, but only in the vaguest of senses.

"So…what do you think?"

"The body of a person who was bee Kissed can survive for decades in a vegetative state. Why is that? Could it be that as long as the soul remains, the body persists as well?"

The new train of thought conjured the words once spoken by the former Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore.

"A soul unbroken, whole," Harry whispered. "That's why you survived the Killing Curse. Why Sturges…"

Upon the ground, surrounded by a pool of thick blood, lay the older man. His wounds were both numerous and fatal. Discounting the broken neck, he should have already bled to death, but still he breathed.

"It…it doesn't seem possible. I mean…"

At his words, Dolohov flung another spell at Sturges. It struck the man in the face, shattering the jumbled mass of teeth. Garbled screams emitted from his broken mouth as he was levitated into the air, everything below the neck hanging limp.

"Goodbye, John," spat Dolohov, before thrusting his wand forward. Sturges flew backwards, tumbling off the edge of the parapet, out of sight. For a moment, a scream lit into the night, before being abruptly cut off.

Though Harry's first impulse was to protest the Death Eater's actions, he had enough perspective on the matter to squash any sympathy. Had Sturges not raped or murdered children, he wouldn't be here in the first place.

Without saying anything Dolohov moved towards the open window, leaning across the rain-splattered ledge. He craned his neck, before turning back towards Harry.

"You need to see this."

He crept forward obediently, towards the window. Despite his misgivings, a morbid part of his mind wanted to rush forward, to see what had happened. Climbing up onto the ledge, he looked down.

Dolohov's spell had thrown him far, beyond the reach of Azkaban's walls. On a flat expanse of rock Sturges lay. Every part of his body was broken and crumpled into red ruin, crimson bones splitting the skin. A person couldn't be more mangled.

Yet within the pile of scarlet meat, muscles twitched and moved, accompanied by a low, mournful moan.

"H-h-he's still alive!"

"As I suspected he may."

Harry felt nothing of the outward calm the Death Eater exuded. No, he was close to panic, and had no idea what was going on.

"What the bloody hell is going on?! Where are we?"

Dolohov shrugged indifferently.

"I do not think there is any way to be sure…but it is telling that the only thing which seems to kill us is the water. I cannot get the image of acid breaking down food in a stomach out of my head."

The idea was enough to make Harry feel light-headed again.

"So all of this…"

"Who is to say for certain? For centuries the Wizarding world has trafficked with creatures we never bothered to fully understand. Perhaps creativity is not their strong point, and the pen they have created mirrors the one we know. Maybe it is intended to seem like a familiar reality to the prisoners until they are dissolved to jelly."

Trying not to think of his likely eventual fate, Harry pressed on.

"They…they don't want us to remember. Why would it matter to them?"

"I do not know," admitted Dolohov, shaking his head.

Harry fell silent, trying to dismantle the situation in his mind. When Sturges had let him out, the floor beneath his cell had been crumbling. Had there been no rescue, he would have been dumped directly into the sea. Trying not to dwell on the fact that perhaps he owed his own survival to the pederast, Harry considered all of the empty cells he had passed. Were they all supposed to just fall into the sea? How many of them had been trapped within their cell, helpless to do anything as the ragged chasm in the floor grew bigger and bigger? All of them seemed to be from the same general time frame…

The idea brought his train of thought to a screeching halt.

"You said Sturges was arrested in the late seventies, right?"

"I did," Dolohov confirmed. "You were captured in 1999, while I eluded capture until 2017."

"2017!" exclaimed Harry.

"Again, time has little relevance here. We are harvested until some crucial, critical point is reached, and then consumed. Perhaps our block contained only the newest prisoners."

"Marie was no criminal," he pointed out with absolute certainty. "She…she didn't even know who I was."

"…no one does anymore."

"What? Are you serious?" asked Harry, not quite believing his ears. "I'm arguably the most famous person in Britain. I don't mean to sound like a complete and utter twat, but it's true."

"At one time, certainly. The world now…well, things have changed."

"How?" demanded Harry. "The war consumed the entire Wizarding world, and leveled half of it. You can't just make all that go away, especially with Voldemort sill alive."

Dolohov shook his head.

"As far as history concerns itself, both you and the Dark Lord never existed. In the early part of the twenty-first century, Ministry forces defeated a minor Dark Lord, and all of his followers were executed as enemies of the state. At least, that was the official story."

"No…the Ministry killed Voldemort!?"

"We could scarcely believe it ourselves," admitted Dolohov. "We never even had confirmation. Several of us were at the ruins of Diagon Alley when the Dark Mark began to fade away. It…seemed to suggest the worst, but nothing was ever certain. I took it as a sign to hide myself, to leave this constant war behind. My opinion was the minority, but all those who tried to find out the truth about the Dark Lord vanished."

"No, there's no way they could have killed Voldemort," Harry stated flatly, thinking of the Prophecy.

"Perhaps not. Maybe he is miles beneath the Ministry, dowsed with Draught of Living Death and entombed in hundreds of feet of concrete. The truth of the matter was never discovered. Whatever the case was, the remnants of the Dark Lord's followers, not to mention the Order, were made into infamous criminals, enemy of the state. Dumbledore, the Dark Lord…it did not matter. There was only the Ministry, and its foes."

"But surely there were people that remembered the truth," insisted Harry, unable to believe that history could be erased so easily.

"Certainly there were, but who would be foolish to speak of such things which ran counter to the official Ministry word? Not two years after the Dark Lord's disappearance, dementors began to patrol neighborhoods, sniffing out dissent among the British population. Year by year its influence spread, encompassing every aspect of Wizarding Britain. History, news, art, sports, even culture…all carefully controlled by the Ministry."

"And knowledge," murmured Harry, thinking of Marie's words. "She…she had never heard of a class called 'Ancient Runes'. Growing up in this new world, she never would have heard of me."

"Indeed not."

The thought of dementors patrolling neighborhoods where children played was a disturbing one. Unleashed on Surrey a single time, a dementor had almost Kissed his cousin. However much of a cunt Dudley had been, even he didn't deserve such a hrash end.

"And even with dementors supposedly working for the Ministry…accidents still happen, don't they?"

"I assume that is how Marie befell of this place, if she was as innocent as you claimed."

Certain of his opinion, Harry nodded, still mulling over Dolohov's words. It was disquieting to consider that every single thing that had ever happened to him had been erased. Wasn't that the point of history; to ensure that the mistakes of the past were never repeated?

"How bad is the future?"

Dolohov shook his head.

"It is a matter of perspective. For those who remembered Britain before the Ministry took over, it was hell, but for those who knew nothing else…it was routine. Being on the run the entire time, I am hardly the correct person to ask, but…"

"But what?"

Dolohov took time to formulate an answer, as if choosing his words completely.

"When one enters the service of the Dark Lord, they forfeit all rights to freedom. Most of my brethren would not admit this, but serving the Dark Lord was not all that different than the rule of the Ministry. Individual thought and goals are discouraged, in the name of a greater purpose."

"So why then join his side?" Harry asked disdainfully. Time and time again examples of Voldemort's cruelty to his followers were evident, yet few ever left his service.

The Death Eater's gaze narrowed for a moment, before he let out a derisive snort.

"You forget that I was once young and idealistic, as you are. I heard the fear spoken in whispers in the Pureblood circles, of how our culture, our way of life was drowning in the flood of Muggleborns into Wizarding Society. No thought given to the hundreds of years of history that preceded them, only empty-headed talk of our antiquity, and how our world would be so much better if it functioned as the Muggle one did."

"Well, what would you expect?" shot back Harry. "It's all they've ever known."

"A point ignored by most," Dolohov admitted with a sigh. "Myself included. I was young, full of rage and looking for a cause to dedicate myself to. One which Voldemort was more than prepared to offer."

"And once you were in…"

"It was too late to back out. As you have no doubt observed, service to the Dark Lord is a lifetime commitment. Those who back out are dealt with most harshly."

"I don't buy that," interjected Harry. "The murders, the torture…are you trying to say they were all built on fear?"

"All people are different. Some took pleasure in the depraved tasks set before them. Others, yes, followed under the banner of fear…but fear can only sustain a person for so long. Eventually, most shifted their way of thinking. Realizing that their choices were limited to death or compliance, they willed themselves into thinking they served a righteous cause."

Harry felt a wave of revulsion wash over him. He thought of all the people who had defied Voldemort; Dumbledore, the Longbottoms, his friends, even his parents. They had all faced death willingly rather than serve the whims of a delusional madman.

"So you were glad when Voldemort was defeated?" asked Harry.

"No, if only because there was no closure to it. I struggle to make you understand, but the hold he held over his followers…even years later, in this wretched place, a small part of my mind always is worried that the Dark Lord will reappear to voice his displeasure."

"So would you serve him if he returned?"

"I have lived the Dark Lord's yoke for too long. If I still held any loyalty to him, you, not Sturges, would have been my main target."

"Oh, er, yes," conceded Harry, thinking off all the times Dolohov easily could have attacked him and chose not to.

Conversation trailed off after that. In the relative quiet, broken only by the raging storm, Harry considered his unlikely companion. Despite his clear capacity for psychopathic levels of violence, there was no denying that Dolohov had been acting out of something more than vengeance when he had interrupted Sturges' molestation attempt. He had been replying to a clear case of a breach on the 'right and wrong' argument.

With Voldemort gone, was it actually possible to trust the former Death Eater?

The sound of thunder filled the North Tower, drawing Harry's attention to the night. A flash of white lightning swiftly followed. For a fraction of a moment, the entire island was illuminated by the flash, displaying dark stone and turbulent seas.

Most striking, however, was out over the water. The churning sea, topped by white surf, seemed to extend out perhaps a mile, before ending in a wall of solid darkness, which even the lightning could not penetrate.

"It's the edge of the world," whispered Harry as the light faded from view. Nothing lay beyond the waters of Azkaban.

"Whether this world exists within the stomach of a dementor, or on a different plane of reality altogether, I have little doubt that it is a construct of some sort. There was no need for it to extend any further."

Rather than feeling hopeless by seeing the borders of the world, Harry was encouraged by them.

"Why bother building anything, though?" he asked, staring out over the water. "Why not just drop us directly into the water? Why draw it out?"

Dolohov turned towards Harry, mulling the question.

"While time works in a different fashion here, it still exists. Perhaps everyone here needs to be devoured in the same time-frame."

Harry nodded excitedly, seeing that Dolohov was working towards the same conclusion he was closing in on.

"I think so too. The water rises, eats everything, including Azkaban itself, so one is left behind."

"So what is your point, then?"

"We were never supposed to escape the cells!" said Harry, excitedly. "But the keys were still available. It's like no thought was put into the design of this world, it was just directly copied from the real version. They've never considered that someone might actually escape!"

Dolohov waved his hand dismissively, a look of annoyance crossing his features.

"How? This is not about escaping an island, but an entire world."

"Exactly! This is an entire world, totally different from ours. The ocean is made from acid. Why should there just be clouds overhead?"

Dolohov's glare sharpened for a moment, before he sat back, resting against the damp stone as he considered the idea.

"If indeed the ocean is similar to stomach acid…and administering the Kiss brings us down here…you think we can just fly out of here?"

"It's the best chance we have!" exclaimed Harry defensively. "This entire island is sinking into the sea! Better to fly into the clouds than to just sit here waiting to be dissolved!"

Unconsciously, his argument had risen to a yell. In the wake of his words, Dolohov let out a small, rare smile.

"I can see why you inspired such loyalty. While your logic is based upon an entire foundation of assumptions…I cannot deny that we are left without a better option."

Grinning, Harry jumped off the ledge, landing on his feet.

"So what are we waiting for?" he asked. "The longer we wait, the better the chance the water will cover broom storage."

A spring in his step, Harry walked towards the east stairs. He knew his plan was going to work. It had to; there were no other options.

As he stepped upon the first step, he heard a flurry of movements behind him. Before he could reach, something grasped him by the shirt and pulled him to the side. As he moved, he saw a purple spell materialize out of the air near the ceiling, illuminating a dark figure perched atop a broom. It just barely missed the vacated space, colliding into the ceiling.

Dolohov spun Harry out of the way, before drawing his own wand.

"Who the hell is that?" he demanded, drawing his own wand. They should have been the last people left on Azkaban, everyone else had been devoured by the sea…

As if he had been punched, Harry's stomach dropped as realization struck. There was one person they had discounted, had forgotten.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" cackled a wretched, mad female voice.

Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Lestrange, back off!" snarled Dolohov. "The Dark Lord is gone!"

"That's what the unfaithful said before!" she screeched, "But he returned! He came back, and rewarded those who believed!"

"Lestrange-"

"And now you protect our Lord's greatest enemy! When did you become a Mudblood lover, Antonin!"

Harry shook his head in frustration. There was no arguing with a zealot, Voldemort's most devout follower.

"When our Lord was defeated by the Ministry!"

"Lies! All lies! You never believed in our Master, and now you consort with the enemy!"

Dolohov opened his mouth to reply, frustration lining his features, before discarding the notion.

"What the fuck do we do?!" hissed Harry, keeping his voice low. Dolohov was clearly skilled, but there was a reason Bellatrix was feared so greatly. Sometimes insanity could bridge the gap between levels of skill.

"The best we can," answered Dolohov, bearing a grim expression. "Lestrange is fucking insane, but not stupid. She will not risk coming up the stairs, so our best bet is to flush her out. Ready?"

Not feeling anything close to prepared, Harry nodded a single time.

"Good. Hit her hard, Harry."

X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X

Author Notes:

Here it is; the answers to almost all of the major mysteries of the story. It took some time to make sure everything fit together. I really hope I didn't mess anything up. One chapter, then the epilogue, and this story will be complete.

I don't know when the next chapter will be ready. My muse is still active, but it's hard to tell which story she shall lead me to.

Thanks to T3t for the beta work, and for error checking. The importance of his help cannot be overstated.

Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear any feedback, negative, positive or indifferent. I reply to every signed review I receive. Not so much for the unsigned ones, lacking the capacity to do so.

8. VII: Last Exit for the Lost

Elizium for the Sleepless Souls

VII: Last Exit for the Lost

X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X

Dolohov descended the stairs first, wand held high. Harry followed in his wake, scanning every inch of the darkened gloom for Bellatrix. The storm lashed against the outside of the ancient masonry, filling the tower with a dull roar.

Reaching the corner where the staircase turned out of sight, Dolohov raised his right hand, making a fist with it. Harry stopped at once, throwing a single glance over his shoulder to assure himself that Lestrange hadn't circled around and flanked them.

The dark-haired man almost casually summoned a chunk of wet mortar from the wall. It melted like an ice-cube as it flew, color draining away, before flattening into a thin disk. Suspended in mid-air at an angle, Harry saw the empty portion of staircase reflected through the crude Transfigured mirror.

"Running usually isn't a big part of her strategy," Harry quietly observed , his level voice betraying none of the dread and apprehension the situation had inspired. Marooned in the most desolate place on earth, or some ethereal impression of it, potentially with their very souls at stake was bad enough. Having to contend with Bellatrix Lestrange, a bitch so psychotic that she stood out among the Death Eaters themselves? That was just fucking unfair.

Though it wasn't really the sinking island fortress of Azkaban, was it? Wasn't it more of a hallucinatory nightmare?

"She's displaying uncharacteristic restraint," answered Dolohov, before turning the corner, makeshift mirror floating before him. Following in his footsteps, Harry tread carefully down the stairs. Up ahead, a wide section of the outer wall had fallen away, letting in heavy sheets of driving rain. Harry gave the gaping hole a wide berth, following his unlikely partner down two more flights of stairs, all of which yielded no sign of Bellatrix.

The longer they went without seeing Lestrange, the more Harry began to wonder about his companion. In his experience, Bellatrix had never backed down from a single fight, always charging head-first into every fight…but not here. Why the change now?

"This isn't like her," declared Harry, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings as they turned another corridor. As he did, a strange, sharp coldness clutched at him. Of course it wasn't like here. It might not even be 'her'...

Was there even one aspect of this situation grounded in reality? The question pulled at him as he stopped on the stairway. The inconsistencies were really starting to add up. Wasn't this set of circumstances awfully convenient? Dolohov, one of Voldemort's most feared Death Eaters, fighting beside him against another of the Dark Lord's servants? All locked within some sort of fucked up dream world, contained within the celestial stomach of a dementor?

"Or more accurately, this is unlike the Lestrange that you know," Dolohov corrected, without turning his head. "Any pureblood-" he stopped himself. "Any wizard should realize that in some instances, a psychological edge can bridge the divide between skill levels."

"Bellatrix is not an actress," stated Harry distractedly, lowering his wand. "None of this is even real though, is it…?"

"Nor did I claim otherwise…what are you talking about?" Dolohov sharply questioned. "Now is not the time for a fucking existential crisis! You want to know if this is fucking real?! I will show you fucking real..."

Dolohov trailed off as he stopped in his tracks, his words aborting in his throat. An argument on this tip of his tongue, Harry glanced back at the former Death Eater. The words died upon his lips as he beheld the dark abyss where the stairs had collapsed, halting their downward progress. Had Bellatrix destroyed the stairs behind her? And if so, why hadn't they heard the crash of stairs being blasted away?

"Where the bloody hell is-"

A deafening roar exploded below them, drowning out his words. The entire tower rocked violently, sending Harry sprawling into the wall. He braced the impact with his hands, saving his face but skinning his palms. No sooner had he stopped himself, Dolohov enclosed his upper arm with a vise-like grip. The normally calm, collected gaze had slipped a fraction, betraying the slightest hint of fear.

"Run!" he yelled, before taking off up the stairs, taking them three at a time.

All questions of relative existence faded as, overhead, worn bricks began to dislodge from the ancient ceiling, sending rivers of crumbling mortar cascading down. With thousands of tons of stone perched perilously overhead, the reality he found himself in had ceased to matter. The tower was collapsing. Real or not, he would die if they didn't do something about it.

Intent on survival, Harry stayed on Dolohov's heels as the ground began to rumble and shift below them.

"This fucking thing's going over!"

Dolohov didn't bother with a reply, instead jabbing his wand forward as he sprinted. A silver spell leapt from his wand, flying forward and connecting with an unseen barrier at the top of the stairs, detonating the ward in a bright arc of magic.

Reaching the top of the stairs a split-second later, Dolohov leapt through fading discharge and conjured a translucent, curved purple shield. As it popped into existence, it deflected a sickly-colored orange curse off into the night.

"Guessed wrong, you stupid cunt!" sneered Dolohov, cutting his wand across his body as he dove towards the ground, launching a violent gust of wind. Bellatrix's grey hex flew over Dolohov's head, missing it by inches. Aloft on her broom, right outside the tower's exterior, Lestrange was helpless as the wind-blast struck her full-force, launching her backwards out of sight, her scream of rage trailing slightly behind her.

Harry sprinted forward as Dolohov picked himself off the ground. He reached the ledge and scrambled onto it. He scanned the gloom for any sign of either Bellatrix or her broom, but the raging storm had lowered visibility down to ten feet. The only thing he saw below him was weather-beaten masonry, which quickly disappeared into the dark. Rain soaking into his robes, he pushed himself back off the ledge with a disgusted snort.

"Can't see a thing in this shit!" Harry shouted over the roar of the wind, staring hopelessly back at Dolohov. "Is she down? Did you see her fall?"

Before Dolohov could open his mouth, the tower answered first with a terrible shudder. The world beneath their feet began to tilt to the left, the flat surface becoming a gradually increasing grade.

"A simple 'no' would have sufficed," he said under his breath, coughing out a chuckle in bemused resignation.

"Potter! Over here!" ordered Dolohov, moving towards the north side of the tower. Harry sprinted up the growing slope, leaping up onto the ledge, bracing himself against the window frame to stop his momentum from carrying him over the edge.

"Be quick with a Cushioning Charm!" snapped Dolohov, before grabbing Harry's arm and leaping over the edge. He opened his mouth to scream as they free-fell for the briefest of moments, before colliding with the rain slicked stone, biting down painfully on his tongue.

The storm seemed to rage at their escape, sending down sheets of rainfall so heavy it was almost like falling underwater. The void rushed up at the pair as they plummeted, their vision filled with rain and decaying stone. Panicking, Harry tried to dig his heels into the stone to slow his descent, but the river of rainfall running down the building denied him purchase. He gave up nearly as soon as he started, instead concentrating on keeping hold of his wand.

Gathering speed as they slid, a large balcony suddenly loomed out of the murk, directly in front of them. Harry started to raise his arm, but Dolohov was far quicker. Over the roar of the storm, a loud crack rang out as a conjured, invisible wedge popped into existence. Harry had the briefest of moments to note the rain drops splattering on the clear construct, before he struck it with a bone-jarring jolt.

Dolohov had angled the conjuration upward, so instead of snapping his legs and shattering his spine, his feet struck first and slid off to the side, just barely shunting him past the obstruction.

Still sliding, Harry let out a mad cackle, and glanced to his right. At the edges of his visibility, he saw Dolohov strike a second out-cropping of stone with his right foot. His leg broke, the wet snap audible over the storm, as was the astonished scream of pain as his descent was inversed, sending him into an uncontrolled spin. As he tumbled downward, a gaping hole in the side of the tower came into view, where the heavy blocks had been blasted apart.

No sooner had his mind registered the hole in the wall, before his nerves had even fired off the signal to lift his wand, Dolohov disappeared down the gaping chasm. In a second it was gone, lost to the storm as if it had never existed.

Harry turned as best he could, fighting against gravity to raise his wand arm, the first syllable of the Summoning Charm upon his lips.

And like that, the tower was gone.

Nothingness. Only a yawning chasm that death rushed up to fill, his unsaid syllables left behind, forgotten.

His downward momentum unceremoniously pitched him out into thin air, and though he knew he should react, he saw raindrops falling beside him, the little droplets keeping pace, so close he could reach out and catch them...but then gravity was tearing at his sodden robes and suddenly he was screaming, raindrops forgotten, as he thrust his wand down.

"Cussinis!"

A white spell leapt from his wand at the frenzied incantation, shining like a beacon as it flew, striking the dark stone with a brilliant flash. Before Harry could even think, his momentum was slowed, driving the air from his lungs as his velocity abruptly died, the Cushioning Charm depositing him softly upon the cold, wet surface.

Against all odds, he lay safely on his back, catching his breath, as the crash of a thousands tons of falling stone echoed out over the darkness, colliding against the roofed causeway of the Abyss. Chunks of stone exploded outward as the tower crumbled to pieces.

With a gasp of breath, Harry flicked his wand up.

"Celero!"

The translucent blue shield lurched into existence, just in time to catch a chuck of stone the size of a dictionary. The impact jarred Harry's arm, sending him sliding back into a puddle, but he maintained the shield with a grunt of pain. In the background, he heard the splash as the ancient masonry tumbled into the hungry mouth of the frothing waters.

Harry shakily got his feet, his waterlogged boots squelching as he moved. The rain slackened as he rose, restoring the faintest vestiges of visibility. Silhouetted by dark clouds, he saw that all that remained of the tower was its lower third, the jagged remains of its top protruding like the root of a pulled tooth.

"How in the fuck…" he whispered to himself, before shaking his head in negation. It didn't matter how Bellatrix had toppled the tower, or if she was even responsible.

What mattered was finding out if Dolohov was alive or not, and doing so before Bellatrix pulled her Lazarus-act again.

Wand held out in front of him, Harry began to stalk the roof the parapets, warily scanning the darkness for any sign of either his adversary, or Dolohov. As he walked, splashing through puddles and skirting around chunks of discarded stone, his hope began to wane. At the speeds they were sliding down the side of the toppling tower, it was difficult to gauge how far they had fallen, or if Dolohov had even had the chance to keep himself from plunging into the acidic water.

Harry reached the tower, vaulting himself over the carved stone railing, onto the lower balcony. He winced at the weight put on his aching wand-shoulder, but shook it off as he leaned through the doorway.

Rainfall cascaded down the worn stone steps, pooling at the bottom. Large portions of the opposite wall had been torn away, lost during the crash. He waded carefully through the water, making his way to the other side and looking down.

The falling remnants of the north tower had punched straight through the Abyss, down to the water below. Three levels of corridors ended abruptly, trailing broken and mangled steel bars, slabs of stone and wooden timbers. The third sub-basement was completely flooded, and thin sheet of rising black water flooded the next level up.

Harry carefully made his way to the edge, carefully testing each section of flooring before dedicating his entire weight to it. For a brief moment, he considered climbing down to look for Dolohov among the rubble, before discarding it for the suicidal notion it was. With the nearly seismic upheaval, trusting in the integrity of any surface was a fool's game.

However, if he were to fly…

"I'd need a broom first," he darkly muttered to himself. There were probably spare brooms still left at the Auror Headquarters, but they could have been in a parallel dimension for all the good they would have done him. In the unfamiliar halls of Azkaban, they would have been splintered to toothpicks before even getting a small portion of the way back to him.

With a start, Harry turned towards the all-encompassing darkness that lay beyond Azkaban. Dolohov had blasted one of the decoys out of the air, but as for the other…could it have lasted this long?

"Only one way to find out," he whispered to himself, bringing his wand up.

"Accio broom!"

As the incantation died away, Harry raised his arm into the air, daring to hope. Even though it seems like hours, it couldn't have been more than forty-five minutes since he'd sent the brooms and their phantom riders off into the night. Surely the odds were not stacked in his favor, but when had they ever been?

Still, with each passing second his hand remained in the air, his enthusiasm for the idea dampened. It if it was going to come, shouldn't it have arrived by now? On the verge of lowering his arm, he heard a thin whistle over the patter of raindrops. Harry spun around, just in time to snatch the Cleansweep hurtling toward him from the air.

In a single fluid movement he threw one leg over the older broom and kicked off the ground, hovering in the air. He prepared to lean forward, to rocket over the edge, before a dark object launched itself from beyond the lip of the precipice. Harry instinctively backed off, wand held high, before noticing that the grey object had three hooks on the end, which were digging into the rock. Attached to the hook was a length of rope, which neatly coiled itself beside the hook as it lifted upwards.

Harry's drew in a quick breath of surprise. Had Dolohov managed to survive somehow?

Erring on the side of caution, Harry quickly Summoned a small stone, and Transfigured it into a mirror. Looking into its smoky, disjointed depths, he was reminded of just how poor his skills were compared to Dolohov, but it would have to serve.

He levitated the poor excuse for mirror over the edge of the chasm, before tilting it.

"You…call…that…a mirror?" queried a tired, pained voice. As the words came out, a pair of raw, bleeding hands, the remaining skin hanging in isolated strings and tatters, appeared.

"Guess I'm out of practice," Harry replied with a grin, moving towards the edge. "How the bloody hell did you survive that fall? I thought you were gone."

As the coil raised farther, Dolohov's head came into view. One side was caved in, and blood painted the other matting and congealing into his dark hair. Yet his dark eyes, though clouded with pain, still held steeled determination. Harry hopped off his broom, and squatted down by the edge, offering his hand. With his other he tucked the makeshift mirror back into his robes.

Despite the poor condition of his hands, Dolohov shook his head.

"Well, I'm clearly not," he said curtly, as if it were the obvious thing in the world, before reaching for Harry's hand. As Harry reached out to help Dolohov all the way up, the former Death Eater's eyes grew wide.

"Get back!" he snarled, pushing out with one of his hands, and sending Harry staggering backwards. As he fell to the wet stone, he saw a purple curse crash down next to Dolohov. Chips of stone exploded in a cloud as Dolohov was thrown backwards, disappearing out of sight. Harry whipped his head around, to see Bellatrix hovering above on a broom, her purple eyes shining with triumph.

"Think Dolohov will enjoy his trip to hell, Baby Potter?" she crooned, before letting out a mad cackle and leveling her wand at Harry.

Harry rolled to the right, summoning the Cleansweep as he moved. The broom leapt into his outstretched hand as her dark crimson curse hit the ground inches to his right with a loud hiss. He hopped aboard and kicked hard off the stone, rocketing into the air.

"Where are you going, Baby Potter? Don't you want to play with your Auntie Bellatrix?" she crooned, before launching a sickly yellow curse. For the briefest of moments, the dark silhouette of her broom was illuminated, revealing a handle spider-webbed with cracks, and bristles pointing in discordant directions.

As the dark once again descended, throwing Bellatrix back into shadow, Harry's mind was made.

"Alright, bitch, let's go," he whispered, before leaning to the right, strafing out of the way of the yellow curse. Once clear, he leaned forward and sped out into the dark, away from both Bellatrix and the crumbling island. Wind and rain pulled against his robes as he flew, trying to pry him from the broom, but he kept his head down and grimaced, both hands wrapped tightly around the polished handle. He chanced a look backwards, and through the sheets of rain, saw Bellatrix leaning forward over her damaged broom, trying to coax every last drop of speed from it.

"Where are you going, Potter!" she screamed, the storm stealing most of her words. "There's nowhere to run!"

A humorless grin broke out at her words. Lestrange most likely had no idea how accurate her words truly were. Adrift in a sea of darkness, Harry chanced another look back, to see that Azkaban had nearly faded from view, folded into the depths of the storm. Not knowing how much room he had left, Harry made his move.

He abruptly spun his body around, forcing the broom with him. Gravity tore at his robes and the wooden shaft creaked under the sudden reversal of inertia, but the broom held steady. He lowered his head and leaned forward, rocketing back towards Azkaban, passing by Bellatrix.

To Harry's dismay, she did not instinctively follow his movements. Instead she slowed, wearing a mad leer as she let go of the shaft and jabbed her wand forward. With the distance closed between them, and his back turned, there was no time to deflect the familiar scarlet curse with. Instead, he flung his left hand back.

The spell collided in the center of his palm, cleaving through it in a splash of blood. Pain howled in his hand, and Harry let out a scream of pain as he clutched the ruined hand to his chest, now short two fingers. Despite the torment, he forced his left hand down and curled the remaining digits around the shaft, pressing down to force more speed from the Cleansweep. It felt like trying to grip broken glass that was on fire, but better a mangled hand than a destroyed broom while flying over an acid ocean.

As he flew, beads of water clinging to his glasses, he saw blue light reflected off the lens. He leaned to his left, allowing Bellatrix's spell to fly harmlessly past.

"Wait, Baby Potter! You left half your hand behind!" screamed Bellatrix in between peals of mad laughter, before letting loose with a flurry of curses. Green, orange, blue, red, purple and green again reflected off his glasses, giving Harry enough warning to duck and dive through the chain of spells. Once the last spell flew past, a Killing Curse if its sickly green glow was any indication, Harry glanced back.

Though his damaged hand was preventing him from maxing out the Cleansweep's speed, he was steadily adding to the distance between himself and Bellatrix. She was sacrificing speed to keep her wand upraised, but she wasn't casting curses at him, she was cutting and twirling her wand in complicated arcs. Harry kept his eye on her, slowing down slightly. If she was using colorless spells, why was her wand still in motion? More than anything, the movements mimicked wand work more consistent with transfiguration and…

With a start, Harry whipped his head forward. Keeping his mangled hand around the broom shaft, he raised his wand with his opposite.

"Lumos!"

A yellow cone of light burst forth, pushing back the darkness. Rain reflected off the magical beam, but at first nothing seemed amiss. Scanning the darkness, his eyes widened as he stared in the area directly in front of him, where somehow the droplets of rain were flattening as they collided with empty space.

Still grasping his wand, he brought his hand down, trapping it against the wooden shaft, and pulled upward as hard as he could. Gravity pulled against him as he rose higher, just high enough to clear the invisible obstruction.

His toes brushed against a floating, unyielding barrier. The likes of which would broken his broom had he not noticed it in time.

"What's a matter, Baby Potter!" mocked Bellatrix, her voice barely audible between distance and the wind. "Did the baby see something that scared him?"

Trying his best to ignore her grating words, Harry stared into the oncoming dark, searching for some sort of sign of a second barrier. As he looked for a sign, he saw two familiar patterns up ahead, where rainfall collided against the unseen. Both of which were closing together.

Harry leaned forward, urging more speed out of the Cleansweep. He shot through the two coalescing walls, before immediately diving downward. For a brief moment his wand illuminated a third barrier, placed directly in the path of his previous trajectory, and then he was past it.

As the island loomed closer, he spied another one of Bellatrix's constructs, at head-level. For a moment Harry considered diving beneath it, for shaking his head and cutting hard to the right. The wind, pulling at his clothes as he turned hard, slapped his sodden robes against the side of the barrier, leaving scant inches between escape and a broken broom. It had been close, but he couldn't let Lestrange dictate his path, and drive him into the ocean. His survival depended upon full range of motion.

"Does Baby Potter like Auntie's widdle toys?!"

There was enough distance between the two that Harry could barely hear the words, but he was far from comforting. Bellatrix was sacrificing distance to swat him out of the air like a troublesome fly.

And she was winning. If he didn't change the game up soon, he was going to lose. Maybe if he had both hands fully functional it would have been a different story, but he didn't have the luxury of considering the 'what-ifs?' of the situation. Only cold reality.

Without warning Harry sped off to the left, shooting towards the partial collapse of the Abyss' outer perimeter. By the light of his wand, he passed by another barrier, one which barely closed within ten feet of him before he rocketed past. Once clear, he began to fly in jagged, zigzag patterns as he closed in on the broken walls.

He dove down hard, as a construct materialized directly in front of him, and then he flew through the wreckage of the collapsed tower, into the darkened halls of the Abyss' first sublevel. He stopped inside the ruined hallway, taking a moment to look for any signs of Dolohov, but nothing caught his eye but the rubble below him, being greedily eaten by the rising ocean waves.

"Potter? Where are youuuuu?!" Bellatrix crooned, her voice moving closer, much nearer than Harry would have anticipated. He raised his wand, and jabbed it forward, flinging a Reductor Curse at the wall to the right of the corridor's entrance. It struck just before Lestrange's appearance, giving her ample time to raise a physical shield, which the debris bounced harmlessly off.

Not that he expected it towork, but it would have been nice to have one fucking thing break right for him.

As the rubble clattered to the floor, Harry turned and race off in the opposite direction, past the empty cells.

"Oh Potterrrr!" crooned Lestrange, amusement evident in her voice. "If you really want to play rough, Auntie Bellatrix has something for you!"

By the moisture still clinging to his glasses, he saw purple curse streak towards his unprotected back. Nearing the end of the hallway, he leaned hard to the right, just skirting the stone corner column. Seconds later, the echo of an explosion reverberated through the narrow corridor, peppering his back with chips of pulverized mortar.

Harry put the breaks on at once, spinning around and turning. Moving quickly, he swung his wand in a quick arc. Two cell doors facing one another from across the hallway opened at his command, leaving a six foot gap between them. Concentrating fiercely, he pointed his wand at the open doors, and the iron bars began to distort and lose their shape, stretching across the hallway and meeting the opposite door. The bars began to entwine with another, creating a twisted know that stretched all the way across the hallway.

Satisfied, Harry took his grip back on the broom and sped off down the hall, past the hordes of empty cells. Nearing the end of the corridor, he spun around, wand pointed back towards his transfigured construct.

Bellatrix emerged from around the corner, dark robes flapping around her. Rather than slow down at seeing the tangled mess in front of her, she whipped her wand forward. A blaze of icy-blue flames erupted from her wand, dousing the iron bars. She struck them at full speed a moment later, and they exploded outward in a rain of frozen shards.

Cackling madly, and leaning slightly to the left side of the hallway, she thrust her wand forward again. As she did, Harry flicked his wand, and another of the cell doors flew wide open, grazing Bellatrix's foot, throwing off her aim. As she collided against the side of the corridor, her scarlet spell flew harmlessly into the floor, six feet in front of Harry. He was showered with stone chips and dust, but little else.

At once Harry began to rain spells down on Bellatrix, who flailed upon her broom, trying to get it under control. Without hesitation she fell backwards off her broom, hitting the floor arse-first, and rolling. For a brief moment, triumph flooded through Harry, but his Stunner missed by a hair's breadth, flying harmlessly past Lestrange's slowing form. Mere feet away from his second spell, a Disarmer, Bellatrix managed to conjure a glowing shield, deflecting the Disarmer right back at Harry.

"Fucking shite!" swore Harry, raising his own shield to deflect the Disarmer into the wall. He dropped the shield at once, a Summoner on his lips, but Bellatrix's spell was quicker. Her broom, now sporting a noticeable split down the center of the shaft, flew back towards her.

"The baby finally decides that he wants to play!" declared Lestrange, catching the damaged broom and hopping on it, rising into the air. "How happy you've made your Auntie!"

Harry started to cast another spell, before glancing at the floor in front of him. Her misplaced spell had blasted clear through the floor, showing a rapidly flooding second sublevel, where the acidic ocean hissed and rolled, partially flooding the corridor.

"Let's see how well you can fly with a broken broom," he said to himself, before rocketing forward and shooting down the hole, his sodden robes scraping against the side of the narrow opening.

Four of the second sublevel's twelve feet of height were underwater. The ocean churned angrily beneath him, hissing as it ate away at the stone and iron. Harry flew more slowly than he had above, maintaining equal distance between the slight arches of ceiling overhead and the deadly waters below. For all the danger the sea represented, braining himself on a low-hanging archway would prove equally disastrous.

Various flotsam and jetsam floated on the surface, including chunks of wood and burned scraps of cloth deeply stained with red. Harry shuddered involuntarily, considering how easily it might have been him trapped within one of the cells, helpless as the water level rose, being dissolved one layer at a time.

He had carefully flown down half the length of the corridor before Bellatrix came into view, flying through the same hole she had vacated. Portions of her robe had been scraped away, leaving red, raw flesh beneath, but her eyes shone with a maniacal glee as she rocketed forward.

"Come give your Auntie a kiss!" Lestrange screamed, surging forward with reckless abandon, as if she had no idea the very water below her would melt the flesh from her bones.

Harry's eyes widened at the realization as Bellatrix surged forward. She was flying with such careless abandon because she hadn't fully comprehended, or figured out, the extreme danger the sea held!

At once, Harry jabbed his wand forward.

"Reducto!"

The overpowered red curse leapt from his wand, bucking his arm in the process. It connected with the water, twenty feet in front of Bellatrix. A small tidal wave exploded forth, bearing down on her. Through the white sheet of ocean spray, he saw a mocking smile find its way onto her face, her violet eyes dancing with glee.

"Do you think Auntie is afraid of a little wa-"

Her mocking words turned into a frenzied scream as the back swell from the impact surged towards Harry. He turned and rocketed down the hallway, feeling the encroaching wave of water bearing down on him. Eyes darting frantically, he spied a staircase to his left, and shot into it. As he passed the threshold, the wave went past the doorway, submerging it for a few moments as water spilled through. He fled through it, flying up the stairs to the next level.

"How'd you like that little bit of water?" asked Harry with a grim smile, before flying out into the dry corridor. Maybe the wave hadn't been enough to take Bellatrix out once and for all, but at the very least he'd probably bought himself a few free moments. As much as he'd like to believe that she was gone, Lestrange's psychotic tenacity was a force to be reckoned with.

Decision made, Harry flew down the hallway slowly, head moving back and forth as he checked every alcove and cell for sign of Dolohov. He saw no sign of the former Death-Eater, but the fragile nature of the island prison was becoming painfully clear.

The blocks which made up the walls, once cunningly placed as to eliminate any air gaps, where coming apart at the seams. Cracks ran through every line of mortar, and stones bulged within their housing.

As he turned the corner, an ominous rumble reverberated through the masonry, sending minute clouds of stone dust and pebbles cascading from the ceiling. Up ahead, he saw the familiar place where the corridor had been broken open like a hollow log, demolished by the toppling tower. As he flew he continued to search, but saw no sign of the Eastern European wizard.

"Potteerrrr!" hissed a rasped, inhuman voice from behind, prompting Harry to spin around, as a stalking horror emerged from around the corner.

The questionable state of Azkaban's very reality was the sole factor keeping Bellatrix alive. Her robes were almost completely gone, save for a few stitches of smoking cloth attached to her legs and midsection. Every inch of her skin was scorched and blistered, the skin having been burnt away to reveal tightly spun tendons and muscles beneath. On her arms and legs flashes of yellow bone poked through.

Bellatrix's face, however, was the worst. The acid had taken all of the cartilage and softest parts, leaving her bereft of ears, eyelids, lips and nose. A few stray strands of scraggly hair hung from her blistered skulls, through which the yellow bone poked through.

Yet still she came, riding a broom on the verge of falling to kindling, unblinking violet eyes blazing with hatred, her flesh still sending up wafts of smoke.

"You'll beg for death, Potter! Beg!"

"Then come and get me, you dippy cunt!" shouted Harry, before taking off down the corridor. He emerged out into the open night, rain lashing down upon him, and turned, wand held at the ready.

Bellatrix rocketed forward, bent over her broom like a crimson skeleton, letting out a banshee's scream. So focused on reaching Harry and ripping him to pieces, she paid no heed as a length of chain shot from one of the cells and launched itself across the corridor, pulling itself taut.

Ribbed cracked and splintered as the chain caught her in the chest. Bellatrix fled backward off her broom, hitting the ground with a crunch and rolling forward, coming to rest several feet from the precipice.

Lestrange's broom kept on going for a few yards, before falling out of the air like a bird struck by a sudden heart-attack. As the broom fell, Harry cast a Summoner. As it reversed direction, however, it broke apart in mid-air, and fell to the swirling water below.

Bellatrix thrashed on the ground as if in the throes of a seizure. From behind her Dolohov stepped out of a nearby cell. Deep cuts and wounds pockmarked his face and his robes, gauging deep into his weeping flesh, but there was no hesitation as he leveled his wand at Lestrange and levitated her, kicking and screaming, into the air.

"Y-you t-t-traitor!" she rasped in between hacking, violent coughs. "The Dark-"

Her words were cut off as she was slammed backwards into the wall, the back of her head bouncing off the stone with a wet crack.

"Think very carefully before you speak again," warned Dolohov, before turning to Harry. "How did her broom hold up?"

"Not very well," Harry admitted. "It disintegrated when I tried to summon it. I'm surprised it even still flew."

"How unsurprising," remarked Dolohov, before turning back to Bellatrix. "I don't suppose you would happen to have another broom stashed somewhere, do you?"

Bellatrix's answered by struggling to raise her wand arm from the wall, making it about an inch before Dolohov released her from the spell, sending her tumbling to the ground in an undignified heap. Free, she started to bring her own wand up, but Dolohov was already moving.

"Crucio!"

Flesh burned away by an acid ocean, the potency of the Cruciatus Curse still reigned as king, prompting Bellatrix to drop to the ground. She curled up into a fetal position as her tortured rasps rang out.

As she screamed, Harry felt the storm intensify, the wind and rain battering against him. It began to soak into the broken corridor in front of him, tendrils of water reaching across the stone floor, towards Bellatrix and Dolohov. It was almost like the storm itself was screaming for blood.

For all Harry knew, it was.

Muscles pulled taut in his wand arm, Dolohov kept the curse held for far longer than Harry had ever seen, or experienced. She must have been edging into the time frame similar to which Frank and Alice Longbottom had received.

On an objective level, he supposed that he should have felt some sort of empathy for the extreme level of torment Lestrange was going through, but it was really hard to dredge up any sympathy, considering her joyous penchant for dealing out torture herself. If anything, Harry felt a small sliver of satisfaction, as Bellatrix had finally reaped as she had sown.

As her gasps and screams began to taper off into silence, Dolohov lifted the curse, letting his wand fall to his side. Body wracked by involuntary spasms, Bellatrix writhed on the floor like a worm cut in half.

"Get up," ordered Dolohov, wand pointed at Lestrange's head. "Unless you want another dosage?"

Still pulling in ragged breaths of air she slowly lurched to her feet, using the wall to pull herself upward. She made it halfway up, back pressed to the wall, her upper body bent at the waist and hanging down.

"All the way up," clarified Dolohov with a cruel smile, as if he was enjoying this. As the words left his lips, Bellatrix was in motion. With previously unhinted dexterity she whipped her wand forward in a single fluid motion.

Dolohov, however, had been ready, wand upraised. Lestrange began to struggle; snarling like an animal caught in a hunter's trap, but her right arm remained static, held aloft. As Dolohov began to move his wand in a slow arc, Bellatrix's arm began to bend backwards, against the joint. Low cracks rang out as her arm moved backwards, towards her own head, the splinters of shattered elbow poking through the tight folds of muscle and tendon.

"How feeble you've grown, Bella," mocked Dolohov as Lestrange's wand came to rest pointing directly at her forehead, her arm bent at an impossible angle. "How effective could the Cruciatus Curse truly be with most of your nerve endings having been eaten away?! Did you think I had forgotten-"

"Fulminis tangere!"

A blue bolt of lightning leapt from Bellatrix's wand, crossing the short distance faster than Harry could track, striking her in the forehead. For a brief moment the remaining flesh left clinging to her skull began to sizzle, while her insane violet eyes took their last glance at the world before they began to melt like tallow, losing their shape.

Dolohov had began to draw away, but the intense charge of electricity traveled through Bellatrix's body in its search for ground, and discharged into the water pooled at their feet in a bright flash. Bellatrix was thrown into the wall behind her, hitting with a crunch.

Standing slightly off to the left, Dolohov was blown backwards, bouncing hard off one of the stone columns and over the edge of the broken precipice.

Harry was in motion at once, diving down after Dolohov. Through driving sheets of rain, he saw the Eastern European hit an upraised slab on stone with a crunch, back first, before rolling down it, sliding into the churning waves below.

A tortured yell rang out as Dolohov tried to scrambled backwards, up the slope, but could find no purchase against the wet stone. Harry, wand out, flicked his wand and Dolohov was pulled from the ocean. Rivulets of water and bloody discharge dripped from his lower body as Harry floated him upwards, through the broken opening of the topmost level of the Abyss.

Dolohov's eyes were shut as he was set down in a sitting position, against the corridor wall.

"Shite…" swore Harry, dismounting his broom before looking guiltily away from Dolohov's lower half. "I-I…should have…"

The Eastern European wizard let out a bitter chuckle as he opened his eyes, which were glazed with torment.

"You should have anticipated my regression into a stereotypical villain, gloating over his supposed 'victory' instead of finishing them while the opportunity presented itself? I think not, Potter. All of…this, is entirely my fault."

At his last words, he motioned towards his lower half with his left arm, which from his forearm down had been melted into an abstract medley of charred flesh and muscle. His lower half was even worse off, where everything below his knees was gone, and the acid had stripped his thighs to the bone. Only his right hand remained untouched, clutching his wand so tightly the fingers had turned white.

"I cannot believe I let that psychotic cunt get the best of me," he continued, shaking his head. "It is an embarrassment…you should have just dropped me back into the sea."

Harry made himself look back at Dolohov. Though his words were coherent, his voice clear, the glassy look in his normally hard gaze told him everything he needed to know about the former Death Eater's mental state.

"First, you're in shock. Second, that would be tremendously unfair after you saved me from that pedophile Sturges. Third, and most important, I've never made a habit of leaving people behind."

Dolohov let out a mocking laugh, shaking his head.

"Despite all you have seen, you are still a naïve child, Potter. Eliminating Sturges had little to do with helping you, and everything to do with vengeance. And leaving people behind? You ride the last broom on the island, Potter. Once Bellatrix was gone I had every intention of taking it from you, forcefully if necessary."

"I don't think you're capable of taking anything by force right now."

"Clearly," snapped Dolohov. "Am I not making sense? I am not your friend, nor your ally. If it meant my escape, I would have happily dropped you into the sea without looking back."

For a moment Harry leveled a cool gaze at the former Death Eater, trying to ascertain his true motivations. They were in direct conflict with his statements atop the North Tower, but there was an appreciable logic to them. It could not be dismissed that Dolohov was a former Death Eater, and had doubtless performed acts of unimaginable evil in the Dark Lord's name, acting of his own volition. His history, however distant, could not be ignored.

Still…

"Water under the bridge," Harry said with a nonchalant shrug. "A mere tickle compared to what Sturges had in mind for me."

"For fuck's sake, Potter!" yelled Dolohov, slamming his good fist into the stone floor for effect. "Listen to me: I would have killed you without a second thought. What makes you so certain I would not try again in the highly unlikely event that we escape this nightmare?"

A mighty groan echoed out following his words, reverberating through the stone of Azkaban. Harry turned his head, across the wide chasm where the toppling tower had split the corridor. Stone and rubble cascaded as the ocean-facing side of the Abyss slid into the churning waves.

In the half left-behind, now exposed to the elements, he saw a dark red figure staggering blindly, left arm held straight out, the right dangling bonelessly. Bellatrix staggered as if drunk, disappearing deeper into the Abyss, fleeing the collapsing masonry.

"And still we sit here, arguing. Would you have us continue to discuss the matter until Azkaban is completely submerged?"

"I would not," admitted Harry, before turning back to Dolohov. "I would have you bound to my back by ropes as I flew into the both of us out of here, and I would have you keep your fucking mouth shut. Think you can do that?"

"I refuse to be tied up like some-"

"Should I disarm you, then, before anything else?" Harry asked, leveling his wand at the fallen man. "I'd prefer you armed, but as you said, time is short and I'm sick of arguing."

Dolohov fired one last glare in his direction, before slumping his shoulders.

"I would not have tolerated such disrespect if I were in full possession of my limbs. What happened to the young philosopher, intent on questioning the nature of reality as the walls were collapsing around him?"

"He decided that when a tower is collapsing around him, even an elaborate dream is scary enough to make you run," explained Harry, setting his broom on the ground, facing away from Dolohov. "Besides, I'm taking advantage of the fact that they'll be no reprisals against me for talking to you like this."

"No immediate reprisals, you cheeky little bastard," sneered the former Death Eater as he awkwardly pushed himself away from the wall. Harry took hold under his armpits and pulled him backward, so that he was sitting atop the broom. He then took his own place on the broom, putting the two of them back to back.

"If only the Dark Lord could see me now," Dolohov snorted with black humor, before conjuring a length of rope. At his command, the coil came to life and wrapped around them tightly, not only binding them together, but preventing the legless wizard from toppling off the back.

Harry kicked hard off the ground, testing the broom. Burdened with an additional one-hundred fifty pounds, the broom's response was much more sluggish, and he'd be lucky to reach even half of the Cleansweep's top speed…but all things considered, it was better than he could have hoped for.

"You should pray that no one gives us chase," remarked Dolohov, not sharing in Harry's optimism.

"Duly noted, but I don't think Bellatrix is any shape to chase up down, even assuming she gets her hands on another broom," he said matter-of-factly, sparing a glance for the collapsed hallway he had seen her running down. With time, perhaps Bellatrix could have adjusted to blindness and once again become a feared adversary, but this version of Azkaban would be a memory long before that happened.

"Ready to leave?"

"No," said Dolohov, shaking his head, and drawing in a long breath. "Even if we somehow manage to escape, a circumstance I find highly unlikely…you are not equipped for what the world has become."

"I'm sure I'll manage, especially with you to guide me."

"You do not understand…but again, how to explain music to someone born without ears?"

As Harry turned his head, he saw Dolohov bring his wand to his temple. When he pulled it away, a long, steel-grey wisp followed, nearly two feet long.

"That's not a normal memory, is it?" asked Harry, staring warily at the strand.

"It is not. A time-delayed memory, if you must know."

"Keep it," said Harry, turning away. "You can give it back to me when we escape."

"You will take it now," Dolohov ordered, his tone brooking no argument. "Supposing we escape this nightmare, you must consider how difficult it will be to escape the real version of Azkaban, especially with a cripple in tow."

"You're a cripple here, but in the real world-"

"You have no way of knowing that," Dolohov coldly contradicted. "If your conjectures must be overwhelmingly optimistic, then so be it, but there must be some contingency in place for a negative outcome as well."

"Fine," conceded Harry. He was loathe to acknowledge Dolohov's point, but they had gone too far to let another argument derail them. At once, the Eastern European deposited the memory into his head.

"Can we finally get the fuck out of here, or do you have yet another request?"

Dolohov let out a low chuckle at the clear impatience in Harry's voice.

"No, I believe that is all. Fly swiftly, Potter."

With a sharp nod, Harry took off, flying out from the corridor, back into the storm. Its intensity had increased to unseen levels and the driving rain struck like a thousand tiny fists. Below him, through the gloom, he saw that the fallen ruins of the north tower were completely submerged, save for the dull edges of a few desolate blocks.

The second sub-level of the Abyss was completely underwater, swallowing the corridor had seen Bellatrix disappear down, and beginning to flood the first. Whatever process governed the rising ocean, it was accelerating. How long would it take for the last tower to sink beneath the deadly waves?

Wind pulled at his sodden robes as he flew higher, trying to tear him from his seat. With each foot of ascension, the difficultly in riding with a passenger became increasingly evident. Harry had anticipated the lead weight tied to his back, but not how demanding the strain on his arms would be to keep the broom until control, or how hard it was to keep leaning forward while being constantly pulled backwards by Dolohov.

Regardless, he kept the difficulty of the climb hidden, not wanting his passenger to know how much strain he was under.

As they rose higher, the darkness around them closed tighter. He glanced downward, to see that Azkaban was lost beneath them. The world was a black void, comprised solely of rain and hurricane-force winds.

"Are we even rising anymore?!" asked Harry, shouting to make himself heard over the howling wind. He was still pulling up, as his aching muscles could attest, but without a frame of reference, he was left with doubts.

"We are!" Dolohov confirmed after a moment. "But if you have any question, ask! Bearings are easily lost up here!"

Harry nodded to himself. He was having enough difficulty trying to control the broom; let his companion worry about navigation.

Though soaked to the bone by the rain, he began to feel his hair, both on his head and arms, begin to stand on end.

"Do you-"

"Cut left!" screamed Dolohov, over the start of Harry's inquiry. He reacted at once, simultaneously leaning his body and pulling the broom. His passenger's dead weight pulled at him, and his arms were nearly pulled from their sockets, but he muscled the broom into obedience, shooting to the left.

In the vacated space, brilliant yellow light coalesced into a single point for the briefest of moments, before exploding downward into bolt of jagged lightning, accompanied by a deafening clap of thunder.

Bright spots danced in Harry's vision in the wake of the flash of light. Blind, he continued upward, before the charged ions in the atmosphere once again began to converge.

"Which way!?" he screamed, unable to pinpoint the origin.

"No time!" yelled Dolohov, reaching into one of the pockets of his robe. Harry turned his head, to see his passenger toss a small object out into the storm, swinging his wand down on the down stroke. The dull, flying object changed in mid-air, its surface becoming reflective.

Brilliant white light exploded slightly above them. Sounds roared as another bolt of lightning shot down and veered slightly away from them, attracted by the glinting object. It disintegrated in mid-air, scattering sparks to the winds.

"How did you know?!" screamed Harry, his heart racing, the stench of ozone assaulting his nostrils.

Dolohov, incredibly, let out a deep laugh.

"We were planning on flying into the middle of a fucking storm, Potter! Did you happen to forget?!"

Despite nearly being cooked by the last bolt, Harry found his galloping heart begin to slow, as a grin found its way onto his rain-soaked face.

"No wonder you're so bloody heavy! Are you carrying half of Azkaban with you?!"

Behind him, he felt Dolohov shake his head.

"That was it! You had better hope that there's not another one!"

He kept a wary eye on his surroundings, but the next thunder strike was distant, far below them. The bright spots in his vision began to fade away, as did the intense elemental fury of the storm.

"We're almost past it," Harry announced happily, no longer having to shout to make himself heard. "Are we still moving upwards?"

"We are," confirmed Dolohov as the wind and rain died away, leaving the rain dripping from their saturated clothes as the storm's only remnants.

Above the clouds was pure darkness, black as jet and silent as the grave. The eerie calm was disconcerting after the cacophony of the storm front. Even the whisper of his heavy robes as he shifted slightly seemed off, the sound muffled.

Almost as it was being swallowed.

Harry looked down, to see if the clouds were visible beneath him, but they too had been consumed by the dark. If he let go of the broom, would he fall forever? For all he knew, nothing remained of Azkaban.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, to find his skin cool and clammy, more unnerved than he wanted to admit. It was like a primal part of his self, the unconscious, animalistic part, had picked up the scent of some dangerous predator, and was trying to warn him of the looming danger.

Nonetheless Harry pushed onward, ignoring the agony in his arms. After flying upwards for so long, his muscles were rubbery, on the very of collapse. Telling himself that in all probability, his arms were not exactly real, did little to quell the ache.

Up above him, a faint outline began to emerge from the void. It was barely distinguishable from the all-compassing darkness, but there. Changing his course slightly, he began to fly towards it.

It was a wide disk, a shade of black so deep that no light could ever escape its pull, and defying any further description. As they neared it, the ambient temperature began to plummet.

Visions rose in Harry's mind, back to that desolate room deep within the Abyss of Azkaban, where Umbridge's personal guard had escorted the dementor into the room. How the cold had penetrated deep, down to the roots of his soul.

Which was the exact same feeling that had settled onto him now.

"Do…do you feel that?" gasped Harry through bluing lips. Behind him, he felt Dolohov give the slightest of nods.

"We are approaching the gateway between life and death itself."

As soon as the words were devoured by the heavy atmosphere, something stirred. Harry heard nothing, saw nothing, but all the same felt it down to his bones, as if some great slumbering, maleficent entity had opened one of its many eyes, to find intruders in its lair.

"Dolohov…what the fuck is it?" Harry asked, his voice tiny, trembling. His skin was cold, his bowels loosening with fear.

"Quiet!" hissed Dolohov, bringing his wand to his face. He spoke an unfamiliar incantation, flavored with Eastern European and a brief red light flashed within his eyeballs, before being quickly swallowed by the dark.

Without warning, Dolohov let loose with a bloodcurdling scream of terror. Harry's insides turned to water at hearing the unflappable Dark Wizard lose control.

"It – it is all around us! We are in its webs!"

"What? Where?"

"Left! Go left!"

Adrenaline roaring in his veins, Harry cut hard to the left. Off to the right, an unseen presence gave off wafts of freezing cold as he passed.

"Left again! Then forward!" ordered Dolohov, before breaking out into mad cackling. "We see only their external shell, their fleshly prison!"

As the broom dove and bucked, the trailing flap of his cloak collided with an unseen, solid object. Something that was hard, unyielding, yet moving.

"Dolohov! What the fuck is it!?" Harry demanded, terror clawing at his mind. At his question, the former Death Eater's insane laughter trailed off.

"It is what lurks beyond the threshold of sight!" he declared. All the strength in his voice was gone, leaving the battle-hardened, resilient wizard sounding as weak and feeble as a patient committed to St. Mungo's long-term spell damage ward. "What waits unseen!"

After his screamed final phase, he leaned towards Harry, as closely to his ear as he could. "You have only this once chance. Fly straight into the darkness!"

Before Harry could question him, something pierced his back, cutting deeply into it. At once the coils of rope were falling away, and the heavy weight upon his back was gone. He turned back to see Dolohov falling through the ether.

The Eastern European wizard seemingly floated in mid-air, before a blight of pure darkness converged upon him. The wisps of darkness converged upon his maimed hand and trailing traces of bones where his legs had been burned off.

As the distance between them increased, the blight attached began to spread, down his arm and up his hips, devouring him. On the verge of turning back, Harry locked eyes with Dolohov's dark eyes one final time. There was torment in his gaze, along with untold fear, but he could have sworn he also saw satisfaction as the former Death Eater's lips mouthed his final intelligible word.

"Go."

With the last of his strength, Dolohov thrust his wand upward, softly incanting in an alien language. As the foreign syllables rang out, his body came alight with white fire, devouring his flesh. As he burned to ash, the blight surrounding him reared back, and a demonic scream rang out, piercing through Harry's skull.

For the briefest of moments, perhaps a thousandth of a second, he saw an infinity of black tentacles spreading forth an endless web of darkness. Each appendage was formed of chitinous, asymmetrical shapes full of teeth, clacking mandibles and millions of eyes, each one burning with the hatred of a million holocausts.

As his bladder let go, spreading warmth down his trousers, Harry tore his gaze forward, to where the infinite blackness hung overhead, like a black moon. Radiant light began to pour from it, pushing back the pestilential darkness.

Desperately grasping to the last tattered shreds of his sanity, Harry summoned the last of his strength and pushed it all into his broom. He rocketed upwards, outracing the alien scream of rage and desolation which followed him, trying to ignore how the burst of light was beginning to fade away, and infinite rings of razor-sharp, disjointed teeth were closing in on its vacated space.

Screaming, urging every spare drop of speed from the broom, he flew into the dying light.

And knew no more.

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Author Notes:

Well, here it is, over eighteen months since the last chapter. Hope the resolution wasn't too disappointing. A short epilogue to tie up a few loose ends, and then this story will be complete.

Sorry about the wait, but large upheavals in my life created a void of creativity and motivation. However, I do believe I've reclaimed my mojo, so you should expect updates to all my work-in-progress stories at some point.

I think I'm going to tackle a few other projects before starting the epilogue for this story, so I don't know when it will surface. Time shall tell. Hopefully a month or two.

Thanks to my co-conspirators, Grinning Lizard, who should probably get co-writing credits, and T3t, who has been there to help from the start. The value of their help in knocking off the rust cannot be overstated.

Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear your reaction, whether it is positive, negative or indifferent. I reply (if not always in a timely fashion) to every signed review I receive.

9. Epilogue: Returning to Gehenna

Elizium for the Sleepless Souls

Epilogue: Returning to Gehenna

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"Senior Auror Dingle, do you know why you have been summoned here today?"

The wizard looked up from his study of the cracked, fading flagstones, eyes twitching as they darted frantically from side-to-side. Twin, hooded figures in dark robes stood on either side of the slowly-balding man, their faces obscured by shadows.

"No! I never did anything wrong!"

His denial echoed, bouncing off the close walls and disappearing into the vast darkness that stretched above Courtroom Eight. The two silent figures standing in vigil could have been made from stone, for all the reaction they had to man's declaration.

"You never did anything…wrong?" repeated Dolorors Umbridge as she stared down from her perch upon the upraised platform overlooking the wizard. "Ever?"

To her left and right, John Dawlish and Martha Hopkirk let out small chuckles. Neither was the brightest member of her staff, especially John, who on a good day retained half of his wits, never having truly recovered from a miscast Confundus Charm, but their loyalty to the Ministry was not in question.

Not today, at any rate.

While the platform was warm and cozy, Harold Dingle seemed anything but. His arms were crossed over his chest, shivering as he watched the silver longhaired cat cross back and forth on the platform above him, the Patronus trailing translucent silver streams in the air as it stalked.

"Well, if he's never done anything wrong, perhaps we should let him go?" ventured Martha Hopkirk, a sly smile upon her face. An original thought had probably never entered her mind, but the niece of the former Head of the Improper Use of Magic Office possessed a yearning for power, and an infatuation with wielding it.

"Aye, why not?" Dawlish said with a shrug, his liver-spotted head shining in the scant torchlight. "Maybe we can just ask a few questions and send him on his way?"

Dingle seized on the opportunity the way a drowning man would grab at a tossed lifeline.

"I'll tell you anything! Anything!"

"Auror Harold Dingle, tell us what happened on the day of October fifteenth, 2029. For your own sake, I would urge you to be thorough."

"I…I woke at five in the morning, like- like I d-d-did every shift. The night sergeant, Arkie Philpotts, gave me the shift turnover, and reported that nothing was wrong. I did my normal morning route around the Abyss, before returning to my office to do some paperwork. At around eleven that morning, one of the Aurors on my crew, Whitby, reported finding a discarded dementor's cloak on the second sub-level of the Abyss."

"What was Whitby's first name?" snapped Hopkirk, a quill suspended in mid-air next to her, an unseen hand making scratches on parchment as she spoke.

"Whitby, Whitby…uh…Kevin."

"Was that a question, or an answer?"

"Kevin Whitby, that was his name! Kevin!"

"Very well then," conceded Umbridge, taking charge. "It is now clear to us you know the full name of one of the Aurors working beneath you. What happened once Auror Whitby found the cloak?"

"We…I…I d-didn't know what to make of it. So we did a sweep of the Abyss, b-b-but we didn't find anything amiss."

The Auror began to shake uncontrollably. Inwardly, Umbridge grinned with satisfaction. No matter how tough, how uncouth, how powerful they were, the dementors reduced them all to scared children, flinching at every barb and shadow.

Beneath the hammer of justice, every witch and wizard was equal.

"Now, Harold…as far as we know, dementors are not in the habit of taking off their robes for laundering. How did you proceed once the source of discarded robe could not be determined? Did, as you no doubt should have realized by now, that a prisoner might have used a dementors' robe to escape?"

"How could we have known?!" wailed the Auror, throwing his hands up in the air.

"It is your job to know!" thundered Dawlish from atop his station on the platform, causing Dingle to cower. "No, it was only the word of a house-elf that even alerted you to the fact that Potter disappeared, wasn't it!"

Umbridge shook her head in disappointment.

"And to think, your superiors had spoken so highly of you, Auror Dingle. After reading their reports, I would have never suspected that your incompetence would be so complete as to allow not just a prisoner, but a Kissed prisoner, to be smuggled out under your watch, by the Order of the Phoenix, dressed in dementor robes. Luckily, one of them was careless enough to leave one behind before they left. Otherwise we would have had no indication of what truly transpired, would we?"

"Maybe he should have rounded all the dementors on the island, to check which one was naked?" suggested Martha Hopkirk.

"Or perhaps he was working with the Order of the Phoenix the entire time?" Dawlish suggested, beady eyes fixed on the crimson-robed figure below him. At the accusation, all the blood drained from Dingle's face.

"No, no!" he denied, shaking his head wildly. "My loyalty is to the Ministry!"

"It is now?" questioned Umbridge, rising from her seat. She leaned out over the edge of the stone platform. "Do you deny that you smuggled out Harry Potter's lifeless body, in a criminal act perpetrated by the Order of the Phoenix, with the ultimate goal of attempting to use the Darkest of magics to reanimate him?"

"Never!" screeched Dingle, eyes nearly rolled up to the whites, spit flying from his mouth.

"We shall see," sneered Umbridge as she looked down upon the pathetic wretch. As she did, a golden locket came free from her fluffy pink cardigan, dangling in the air. She tucked it back, never taking her eyes off her prey. "Guards, take him back to his cell. A few days in the dark may bear us the truth of the matter."

"No! No, please, I'll-"

His pleading was cut off as the dementors stationed at his side descended on him. Hands of grey, rotted flesh covered with scabs clamped down on each of his arms. Dingle wilted like burning parchment as the phantoms bore him away, in the direction of the dungeons.

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The Muggleborn Registration Commission was running at full capacity as Umbridge moved across its main floor. Seated at the hundreds of desks that stretched across the wide production floor witches and wizards worked diligently. Wands waved and twirled, and brightly colored pieces of paper flew like tropical birds, folding and arranging themselves into neatly stacked piles.

Though her head was held high, her gaze fixed straight ahead, she mentally inventoried each furtive glance, every slight downturn of the mouth. In each display of dislike, she saw the seeds of discontent being sown. Doubtless, they may not flower immediately, but once a weed has grown, its roots had already spread outward, corrupting all it touched. No, it was the seeds themselves that must be purged.

She smiled to herself as she approached the gleaming mahogany door, twin bronze plaques set into it. They were no longer accurate, as her influence and importance within the Ministry had risen far above the station of Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, and Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, but it was a useful reminder of where she had come from, and how hard she needed to work to maintain all she had accomplished.

She closed her hand around the freshly-polished doorknob, and turned. As the door opened, she stopped to admire bright, electric-blue eyeball set into the center of the door. The freely moving eye unsettled more of her staff than anything else she had conjured, keeping them tense and watchful whenever she was in her office. And while certainly it was an occasionally useful real-time surveillance tool, it served even better as a distraction from her true monitoring system.

Umbridge closed the door behind her, shutting out the outside world. Lace draperies, doilies and dried flowers preserved beneath thin panes of glass covered each table. From every inch of available wall hung ornamental plates, each featuring brightly colored kittens frolicking and playing. The wide desk was covered with a flowered cloth, and the large mahogany cabinet behind her desk had entwined roses and vines carved over its entire front.

Pushing aside the brass telescope extension which led to Alastor Moody's eye, she sat down behind her desk, noting the time to be half past the sixteenth hour. For a moment, she stretched her arms above her, trying to force the persistent ache from her lower back. The rigorous demands of her position within the Ministry had not agreed with the advent of her ninth decade on this earth, but there was far too much to accomplish to slow down.

Reaching hand down, she opened one of the drawers and withdrew a small stack of stationary. The top of every sheet of lilac-pink paper was emblazoned with the heading 'From the Desk of Chief Undersecretary Dolores Umbridge' in purple ink, while a kitten played and leapt at the bottom left. She spared a single glance to the porcelain clock next to the door, in which every numeral had been replaced with a different colored cat, before she began scratching away at the paper with her quill.

In just under fifteen minutes she had written ten short notes, each addressed to one of her many agents on the floor of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission. Each was given specific instructions as to which worker they would be shadowing, and what sign they should study. A bathroom break spaced too closely to the last; their facial expressions when Ministry superiors crossed the production floor; any conversations with other workers; one could never tell when an unguarded moment might present itself, and the true malcontent hidden within would unwittingly be revealed.

After sealing each set of orders into tamper-proof envelopes, she set them in her wicker outgoing mail basket, before flinging another glance towards the clock, which showed that it was fifteen minutes until seventeen hundred hours. Which meant…

A quiet knock on her door echoed through the office. Yes, right on time. Nonetheless, she reached for the telescope view port, peering into it. After confirming the entrant's identity, she pushed away the telescope and opened the door with a casual wave of her wand.

"Unspeakable Entwhistle, please come in," greeted Umbridge, waving him into the office. Dressed in grey, unassuming robes, the blond, middle-aged wizard entered, his heavily-lined face without expression.

"Thank you, Undersecretary," he replied in a low voice, before motioning to the single chair before her desk. "May I?"

"Of course! Please, sit! May I offer you a cuppa?"

"No thank you," he declined, before running hand down his face. Entwhistle's eyes were sunken deep into his face, with heavy, dark bags hanging underneath him. It appeared that the Unspeakable had taken his orders literally, and hadn't slept since receiving them. From the pockets of his robe he withdrew a thick file, placing it lightly upon his desk.

"Did you uncover anything of note?" Umbridge asked, with a speculative eye upon the file. The question came out light, but inwardly she was coiled tightly like a spring.

"That is…difficult to say," the Unspeakable answered noncommittally after a moment of silence. "I was given the robe to examine by one of the superiors, but not given its contextual significance. What exactly were you looking to discover?"

"The most recent count of Azkaban dementors came one short. The only anomaly found after sweeping the island was this one robe. So the Aurors need to know if there's a rogue dementor, or if someone perhaps snuck onto the island in the guise of one, and discarded it carelessly when through with it. Or maybe it's all a coincidence, and nothing is amiss, and we just need to overhaul our inventory system."

"Well, you can cross off an intruder from your list," answered the Unspeakable, crossing his legs. "We found no particles of discarded skin or hair follicles on the robe. Neither did we find any lingering magical corona on the clothes. It's never been worn by a human."

"So it couldn't have been scrubbed clean?"

"Scrubbed clean of physical traces, perhaps, but only by a wizard extremely well versed in our forensic techniques. As for the magical corona, however…no way. You could place it within a dementor's negation field for a month, and you'd still find traces of our magic if you examined it afterwards."

Umbridge leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbows on the table. "So if no human wore it, where did it come from?"

"Based upon the age and breakdown of the raw materials present…I'd say it came from a dementor."

"It…came from a dementor," repeated Umbridge, lowering her voice in disappointment. She let out a deep sigh, shaking her head. "That seems highly unlikely, Unspeakable. Dementors are not known for their cleanliness, and thus would have no reason to take off their robes, even to launder them. So…what, then? An Auror stripped a dementor of its clothes on a lark? A little fun to enliven their Friday nights?"

Entwhistle bore her barbs with patient indifference.

"No, I think it more likely than the dementor wearing it died."

Silence met his theory. Umbridge studied the Unspeakable for a moment, before letting out a brief, fluttering laugh.

"Oh, it died? Is that correct, Unspeakable Entwhistle?"

"In my professional opinion, yes."

Umbridge let out another bray of high-pitched, girlish laughter. "Well, as a professional, Unspeakable, surely you would have noted that dementors cannot be killed? A teensy-weensy oversight on your behalf, I'm afraid."

"Well, that is the prevailing opinion, certainly."

"Unspeakable, if there was a way to kill them, we would have found it by now. Fire shrivels in their presence, puncture wounds scab over and disappear, and most spells have no effect on them. Am I leaving anything out, Unspeakable?"

"How do dementors breed, Undersecretary? Why is it that in the past thirty years, their numbers have doubled?"

Umbridge quickly found herself losing patience with the young Unspeakable. He was reporting to her; not that other way around.

"Since you appear to be an expert on the subject, why don't you enlighten me?"

Entwhistle took a deep, weary breath inward. "No one knows. There is so much about these creatures that we don't understand…when I first received the robe, it was covered in a thin, grey slime. However, with each passing hour, it vanished. There…solids and liquid may change form, but it never disappears. For matter to vanish completely…there's no logical explanation for it."

"So what's your best guess?"

"Mine? That it went back to wherever the dementors come from."

Umbridge fixed her gaze upon Entwhistle, trying to determine whether the Unspeakable was having her on, but the man's face, covered in two days of stubble, gave no hints. With a sigh, she dismissed him from her office. When he closed the door behind him, she took up her wand and locked the door. That done, she began to speculate.

They knew far too little about the dementors; that could not be disputed. It was have been far more neat and tidy if the discarded robe had belonged to the intruder who had snuck Harry Potter's body out of Azkaban, but that was looking less and less likely as being the solution. Was there even a connection between the two events, or had the disappearance of Potter's body caused her desperately grasp at any straw?

It was like an old scar had opened. Her triumph over the de-facto leader of the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore's golden boy, had been one of the highlights of her career, shoveling the last load of dirt upon the Order's resistance. With their terrorist cell no longer a threat, the Ministry had been able to focus all of its efforts upon Voldemort and its Death Eaters, who had outgrown their usefulness as allies, paving the way to what was widely publicized as Voldemort's defeat, and subsequent withdrawal into the shadows. And if that wasn't exactly the truth of the matter…who would be able to say otherwise?

Potter, though…why go through the trouble of stealing his body, even as a rallying point? There were precious few members of the Order remaining who hadn't been either put to death or Kissed. Why surface now after years of hiding? What purpose did the abduction of a soulless vessel accomplish?

No closer to an answer, Umbridge rose from her seat and stood in front of the ornately carved cabinet. She withdrew a gold-plated key from a hidden pocket in her robes, and unlocked the door. Within hung countless fluffy cardigans, sorted neatly by color. She quickly closed the door again, turning the key the in the opposite direction and opening the door again.

The clothes were gone. An inky darkness filled the cabinet, stretching beyond the reach of the office's torchlight, into what looked like a tunnel formed from stone blocks. Umbridge stepped inside the cabinet, closing the door behind her. It locked itself with a small click as a white light began to spill from the tip of her wand. Holding it in front of her, she walked into the darkness.

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At the end of the stone-walled tunnel was a large, square room. It was lit by flickering blue torchlight, causing shadows to strut and dance within what Umbridge referred to as 'The Archive'.

Tall columns of long filing cabinets, stacked atop one another, stretched up to the high ceiling, occupying most of the floor space. A small section of wall, clear from any clutter, had a plain mahogany desk set against it, bereft of the decorations which smothered her office.

Above the desk sat a gallery of posters, bearing the likenesses of the fallen enemies of the Ministry. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Bellatrix Lestrange, Ron Weasley, Nymphodora Tonks, Antonin Dolohov, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Neville Longbottom…and Harry-fucking-Potter.

Her mood soured at the mocking visage. The unruly black hair, the piercing green eyes, the abominable lighting-bolt shaped scar upon his forehead, and worst of all, the contemptuous smirk he wore. It was like he was laughing at the pink note bearing the word 'to be punished' stuck the corner of the poster. She was struck with a sudden urge to tear the poster down and burn it to ashes.

Taking a deep breath, she reconsidered. Her victory of Potter was complete, his place upon her gallery secured. Hadn't she been there when the dementor had administered the Kiss, had watched the light fade from his eyes, had seen his mouth slacken?

Though how could her victory be complete if his body had been snatched out from under her nose?

Scowling, her head pounding, she down at the large desk. Ever since his body went missing, three days ago, Potter continued to torment her. He hid in every shadow, lurked behind every unopened door. He was a mental scab she could not stop picking, that sore on the inside of your mouth that would just heal if left alone for a day.

Umbridge reached into one of the desk drawers, withdrawing a small, sparkling hourglass suspended from a thin golden chain. Recalling that she arrived in her office at half past the sixteenth hour, she turned over the hourglass four times, which would allow more than enough time to finish today's archival tasks, and exit the office before coming face-to-face with herself.

She scrunched her eyes tightly as she was flung backwards, at what seemed like a million miles per hours. Strange, alien sounds assaulted her ears as the wind tore at her cardigan. Just when she thought she couldn't take it anymore, the floor beneath her feet once again became solid, and she stopped.

The Head of the Muggle-Born Registration sat for a moment in the chair, hand held over her racing, fluttering heart. As much as she hated to admit it, she was inching towards the age where Time-Turner usage was said to be unsafe. As her heart began to slow down, her convictions strengthened. There was just too much to accomplish. She needed every second.

Four hours into the past, she withdrew a quill and inkwell from her desk, before flicking her wand. Far above, a cabinet clanged open, followed by a rushing sound as a binder flew through the air, and landed neatly on the desk in front of her.

Opening the binder to the first page, she gave it a cursory glance:

Kevin Entwhistle

Blood Status: Pureblood, though rumors of a Muggle grandparent exist.

Family: None. Both parents killed in the Cataclysm. Reportedly single.

Fraternization: Suspicious. Very infrequent human contact outside the Ministry. Efforts to track him on vacation days has proven difficult. Is clearly hiding something.

Social Patterns: As is typical with the Unspeakables, there are no tells or facial tics during conversation. A neutral expression is assumed at all time.

Security Status: TRACKED. Though confirmed by the Muggle-Born Registration Commission as being of Pureblood ancestry, subsequent and independent confirmations have proven difficult. Along with his disappearances, paints the picture of someone hiding a large secret. Potential enemy of the state.

Potential Threat: MODERATE. Subject may know the true cause of the Cataclysm. If so he could hold the Ministry accountable for the death of his parents. To be monitored.

Umbridge frowned at the first page. A follow-up audit on Entwhistle should have been performed long ago. There were too many unanswered questions. Could he have had anything to do with Potter's disappearance? Only one year had separated them at Hogwarts, and while there was no official documentation mentioning any friendship between the two students, it was not inconceivable that…

She shook her head, sending the bow perched upon her white curls wobbling. This was not productive; she needed to stop thinking about Potter, and more about her task at hand.

Umbridge flipped through the book, past copies of Gringotts' bank statements, OWL and NEWT exams and results, job applications, Supervisor reviews, to the thickest section of the book. Each section was labeled by month and year, stretching back to 2004. She flipped to end of the book, where blank pieces of parchment had been set into the binder, into a section labeled 'October, 2029'. Dipping her quill into the blank ink, she began to scratch out words:

Unspeakable Kevin Entwhistle appeared at the designated meeting time of 16 45, on the 29th day of the month, announcing himself with four quiet knocks upon the office door. I greeted him as 'Unspeakable Entwhistle', and told him to come in. He entered, his face neutral. He thanked me, before asking permission to sit down, which I granted. When I asked him for a cuppa, he declined, before running a hand down his face.

The motion seemed to indicate exhaustion, which is supported by the general weariness of his face, as well as the heavy bags beneath his eyes. This is consistent with the short time-frame he was given to work on the cloak, but cannot be guaranteed to be the cause. Another high-priority case must be assigned to Entwhistle shortly, to see if running a hand down his face is a motion synonymous with exhaustion, or something else entirely.

When asked if he had uncovered anything or note, his answer was noncommittal, claiming that it was difficult to tell. I believe he was forcing me to define the terms of usefulness. While he could have been hiding the results of the test, a more likely scenario was in the interest of time, to cut straight to what I found important…

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Four hours later, Dolores Umbridge exited the Ministry of Magic. The early evening sky was steel-grey, while the heavy winds blew moist mists into her face. The fading sun was behind her, and blotted out by the black spires, leaving her swathed in shadow. Shivering, she pulled her coat tighter and lowered her head, scurrying as fast as she could across the concrete plain.

The Ministry, raised from the depths, stood tall and proud, a gleaming black monolith amidst the gardens of grey. It lay at the center of a sunken concrete field, which stretched out a quarter mile in every direction, ending in a double stone wall twenty-five feet high that wrapped its entire circumference. Lines of waiting witches and wizards stretched out from intervals set around the wall.

Umbridge bypassed them all, going to a security checkpoint reserved for high-rank Ministry officials such as herself. She passed through the large, warded stone archway attended by a blue-robed guard, and patiently bore the Secrecy Detector waved at her. No one was above security protocol; not even her. What right did the commoner have to complain if she herself abided by the rules?

Passing the checkpoint, she entered the wide space between the inner and outer walls, which were plastered with murals and posters. Rows and rows of fireplaces and designated apparation points were set into the inside of the inner wall, and the evening was alive with the cracks of apparation and the roar of green flames.

Bypassing the lines again, a fireplace was quickly made available to her, allowing Umbridge to make the entire journey home in five minutes. She pounded her feet on the doormat outside her stoop, before stepping into the small, modest home.

In the fading light, she passed through a non-descript living room, decorated with pink furniture and draperies, and into the kitchen. Humming to herself as she moved, she retrieved a bowl from an upper cabinet, and emptied a fresh can of cat food into it, using a fork to mash the wet solid into a more digestible form. She brought the bowl outside, to the porch which overlooked the garden in her backyard, setting at the far end.

After a few minutes of patient waiting, a tiny cat, a calico, emerged from beneath the porch. Thin and emaciated, the cat eyed the food with suspicion, but after seeing no immediate harm, she leapt towards the bowl. Purrs echoed out into the night as the calico wolfed down the meal.

"Was that good, kitty?" asked Umbridge once it finished eating. The cat jumped at her voice, its ears laying flat against her black-and-white head.

"It's okay, kitty," she reassured in soft tones, extending a hand towards the cat. "I'm not going to hurt you."

It eyed her hand warily, before taking off down the stairs, out of sight. Rather than being put-out, however, Umbridge felt satisfaction. No war was ever won in a day. Give the cat a few days, and maybe it might start to consider her as a benefactor, rather as an enemy.

Letting out a light chuckle, she went back into the house, hanging her sodden coat on a peg hanging in the kitchen. She cast a Warming Charm upon herself, before moving deeper into the house. Pictures of sleeping cats hung on the walls of the hallway, escorting her to the bedroom. She ignored the pink, frilly bed, and moved towards the wooden cabinet on the far wall. Unlocking it, she stepped into the empty space inside, closing the door behind her.

For a moment she stood motionless, before the floor dropped out beneath her. Despite her familiarity with the sensation, a gasp escaped her lips at the sudden loss in gravity, which ended just as soon as it began. As she opened the door, a smile escaped her lips.

She was finally home. To her true home, that was.

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Umbridge stepped out of the other end of the linked vanishing cabinet, into a bedroom bereft of comfort. Four white walls and a door were its only features.

She stepped out of the room, into a large, indoor park. Small trees grew through the moss floor, the trunk reaching up, while the branches reached out, all the way to the walls, which were painted black, and emblazoned with distant points of light. Grass grew among the thick moss, with a tiny, shallow stream running through the middle.

The cats were everywhere.

An orange and white tabby sat on one of the upper branches, staring at the moon painted on the ceiling. Two tiny calicos, perhaps twins, sat at the juncture of the branch and trunk. A blue and a Persian lay curled up together on a bed of soft moss, eyes closed. A brown and black tiger, ready to pounce, crouched behind a large, pure white cat, completely oblivious to its stalker. A mother Siamese was in the middle of an enormous yawn, while five kittens curled up against her side, looking more like small tufts of fur than cat.

Not a single whisker moved on any of the cats.

"Good evening, my babies," cooed Umbridge, stooping down to scratch behind the ears of the mother. There was nothing that could cheer her up after a long day like a visit with her perfect, obedient children.

In the deep quiet of the house, a tortured moan rolled out, coming from one of the bedrooms. Her smile widening a hair, Umbridge left the menagerie behind, entering the room at the end of the hall.

A noxious, pungent odor filled the bedroom, so deeply ingrained that a million Freshening and Filtering Charms would have done little good. A wide cabinet with a glass front was set against the front wall, displaying hundreds of vials and glass stoppers full of brightly colored liquids.

Most of the room was taken up by a large, rickety wooden bed. As Umbridge's eyes fell upon it, the moans grew more insistent, desperate. A wide smile upon her face, she approached the figure upon it.

"Good evening, mother."

The figure lying on the bed, held in place by the leather straps, looked like a living skeleton, little more than skin-wrapped bones. The eyes staring back were a sickly yellow at the corneas, full of hatred and malice. Bereft of teeth, her puckered mouth gnashed at the air, revealing that most of her tongue was missing. A few strands of straggly, dirty white hair hung down from her splotchy, liver-spotted head, but that was all.

Umbridge withdrew her wand and pointed it at her mother. A red light flashed over her entire body, filling the room with blood, before fading away.

"Your sugar levels are getting concerningly low, but I have just the thing to fix you up," she said in jovial tones, opening the potions cabinet."

"MMMmm MMMmm MMMMmmmm!"

The ancient woman struggled, but was powerless as Umbridge uncorked a blue potion and sent it down the IV line. Blue traveled down the clear tube, disappearing into where the splotchy-grey flesh had enveloped the needle in her arm. The next time Umbridge cast the diagnostic, it came back negative.

"All better now," she declared, placing the insulin back in the cabinet. "Now, what will it be for dinner, mother? The red vitamin cocktail or the green nutrient mix?"

Her mother began to quiver on the bed, but was unable to offer any further resistance. Umbridge let out a hearty, fluttering laugh.

"I know you don't care for them, mother, and even I'll admit they're not the tastiest meal in the world…but how else are we going to keep you healthy?"

The ancient woman let out a familiar muffled cry, composed of three distinct syllables.

"Just kill you?! I think not, mother. You-"

A cacophony of screeches and yowls interrupted her, pouring through the door and assaulting her ears. All thoughts of her mother fled, and Umbridge waddled out of the room, wand drawn. Had she used a bad batch of draught on her babies, limiting the length of its effectiveness?

As she emerged into the living room, she nearly tripped over a running cat. They meowed and hissed, sprinting from one room to another like it was a feline speedway, tails held high, almost faster than she could process.

Beholding the unruly behavior and movements, her surprise curdled to anger.

"I will have order!" she screamed, raising her wand into the air. Before she realized it, she was flying forward, her wand painfully ripped from her grasp. Umbridge hit the ground hard and rolled over several times, landing with her face in the dirt. Gasping for air, she rolled her bulk over, letting out exaggerated moans of pain as her right arm moved downward.

"I wouldn't suggest that," suggested a calm, maddeningly familiar male voice. She ignored the warning, continuing to play possum as she strained her hand towards the spare wand hidden in her boot.

In the next moment, the world spun around her as an invisible force latched around her foot and pulled her up into the air. She let out a squawk of surprise, before her anger lashed out.

"Put me down!"

Eyes widening, realizing she had spoken foolishly, the caster cancelled the spell, sending her crashing to the ground. She landed head-first, wrenching something in her neck as the crown of her head struck the hard ground. Dazed for a moment, she barely felt her spare wand fly out from her boot. Skull pounding, she lurched to her feet, mind full of crimson rage. Before her stood a short, dirty, unnaturally thin man, who wore a cruel, mocking smile.

"Do you know who I am?!" she screamed, slamming her fists against her thick thighs. "I will…"

Her words died as she studied her adversary closer.

"I do, in fact," stated the intruder, his tone light, but his bright green eyes, sunken deep into his skull, burned with hatred. He wore ill-fitting, dirt-stained rags, and was little more than skin-covered bones, but even though time had planted white among his raven-black tresses, the lightning-bolt shaped scar was as clear as it always had been.

"P-Potter….n-no, you're dead…I…I…"

"A certain Dark Lord of ill repute thought the same thing when he stood over my crib, a Killing Curse upon his lips. Didn't work out too well for him, though."

"No! No!" denied Umbridge, shaking her head back and forth, still trying to process Harry Potter's impossible return. "This is unacceptable! I saw it happen! It gave you the Kiss!"

"And yet here I am," Potter stated, spreading his arms wide. "Alive to witness the absolute shit world that the Ministry has built. It took nearly thirty years to put the information I stole from the Ministry to use…but better late than never, I suppose."

The slight cut through the haze of unbelief and shock, indignation flaring within her.

"I've built something beautiful," she snarled, drawing a mocking laugh from Harry.

"Beautiful? I took a look in the back room before you arrived. Is what you've done to your mother beautiful?"

"You have no idea! None! What she did to me, what she is-"

"Nor do I give a fuck. Look at what you did to the cats. You don't make much of a distinction between love and hate, just as long as you can control them. That's what this entire world is to you, isn't it?"

Though she betrayed nothing but indignation and anger, inwardly she saw how frail Potter was. However he had come back and found her, the process had taxed him horribly. If she could only keep him talking, then maybe…

"You know nothing! Nothing! All I've sacrificed, all I've done, it's been for the greater-"

"You did it all for yourself!" screamed Potter, spraying spittle across the floor as his eyes bulged with rage. He raised his wand, pointing it directly at her heart, the tip shaking. Seeing her opportunity, she began to creep forward, continuing to talk. Potter was here for his revenge; he didn't just want to kill him, but convince her he was in the right. If she played her cards correctly…

"You misunderstand me, Potter," she said, keeping her voice as low as possible. "I only sought to create a peaceful, prosperous Wizarding Britain. I-"

"And now you're going to help me burn it down," Potter stated, starting to regain his composure. The statement stopped Umbridge in her tracks.

"You can't," she gasped.

"I can, I will, and you shall play a central role."

"You don't know what you're doing, Potter. You have no idea what we've accomplished. You will be alone, Potter! We've stamped out every last bit of resistance in Britain. You couldn't even comprehend the level of control we exert-"

"Actually, I can," interrupted Harry, his confidence returned. "A…I wouldn't call him a friend, but an acquaintance left me with quite the treasure trove of knowledge. More than enough to escape Azkaban, and find your home without being caught."

All hopes of escape rapidly dwindling, Umbridge resorted to one, final desperate bid for freedom. Lowering her head, she charged forward, screeching.

Unfortunately for her, Potter was far quicker. His quick spell caught her in the chest, sending her flying into the wall. Plaster crunched and her back flared with agony as she struck, forcing the breath from her lungs. Umbridge feebly kicked out her legs, but was unable to move, as Potter kept his wand raised, pinning her to the wall.

"Take a good look around, Dolores," urged the Potter whelp as he moved forward, wand held in front of him. "Mark it well, because the next time your thoughts are your own, this world is going to be a vastly different place."

The last thing she saw before oblivion descended was his arm snap forward, a triumphant grin upon his face.

"Imperio!"

X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X -|- X-X-X-X-X-X

Author Notes:

Well, that's it, that's all I have. Hopefully it wasn't too disappointing.

I was going to do some cool formatting with Entwhistle's file, but wasn't having any of that. Hopefully it's still coherent.

While the epilogue set up many potential plot points, it served as closure to the core plot of this story, which was Harry's escape from the Dementor's Kiss. If I were to continue this, it would be as a separate story, since it would be very tonally different, more of a 1984 / V for Vendetta vibe than the more horror / mystery approach wielded here. I cannot promise a sequel will appear, but if I have enough quality ideas I would certainly pursue it.

As an experiment I decided to write this story completely outside my usual DLP haunts…and I think it may have suffered for it. That being said, the help that I did receive from my co-conspirators was priceless:

T3t, Grinning Lizard, Mira Mirth, Swimdraconian and BajaB

Each helped to craft and edit the story, and without their assistance it would not have gotten nearly as far as it did. I, of course, take full responsibility for the parts that did not work well (i.e. how badly I butchered Mundungus' cockney accent).

As always, thank you for reading. I'd love to hear your reactions to the story, whether they're positive, negative or indifferent. I reply, if not always in a time fashion, to every review I receive.