ACT4CH30 - Azkaban

The island of Azkaban had been part of the Ministry of Magic since the early fourteenth century after the capture and execution of the Dark Lord Emeric the Evil. When the Ministry’s forces raided Emeric’s base, they found something so deranged and horrible and twisted that Minister Damocles Rowle, using the help of an emergency Wizengamot session held in secret, found it relevant enough to sweep it all under the Official Secrets Act. Every single Auror that had been part of the mission had to go through summary Obliviation to forget every trace of whatever they had discovered inside. All the public knew was that the Ministry of Magic had bound the twisted, amortal abominations that lurked inside the island in an ironclad contract, keeping them bound to the island, in exchange for letting them feed on the souls of the unfortunate that got sentenced to serve prison time in that place. Thus, the island prison of Azkaban came into being.

And currently, a ragtag group of aurors, hit-wizards, honourable discharges, hired wands, a few members of the Order of the Phoenix, and Harry Potter were journeying towards it alongside the DMLE Director and Head Auror.

In an ancient muggle trawler.

With absolutely no enchantments or defences to prevent them from being horribly murdered should anything or anyone drop bombardments while they were on it from above or afar.

“I think,” said Harry Potter, not at all hiding the incredulity in his tone. “There is humour here, that does not translate well to sanity.”

“It’s one of Azkaban’s defences,” said Rufus Scrimgeour amiably, pointing at a tiny hillock that rose from the bottom of the sea, peeking atop the water. “From that point to about two miles ahead, all enchantments go crazy. There was even a pissing contest between different broom companies to see which broom could survive the longest before crashing into the sea.”

“Isn’t that similar to the pentacle-thingy  the Death Eaters pulled off at the hospital?” asked Kingsley, looking at Harry.

Harry wondered what the man would say if he told him that the creation of their Wizengamot was actually based on the ‘pentacle-thingy’ he was so confused about. 

“Barely,” he said, shaking his head. “The Pentacle at the hospital had multiple options built into it. Traps, setups, arrangements for shifting the anchors and placing new ones
 Compared to that, this is rather simple. Just a single Circle to prevent modern spellcraft from functioning within the periphery of this ward.”

“Simple, he says,” muttered Kingsley.

“A Circle?” asked Rufus, crooking an eyebrow.

“Circle,” Harry affirmed. “Unike with wards, where Magic follows processes and obeys laws, this is more of a spiritual invocation, a prayer if you will, in exchange for a considerable sacrifice.”

He didn’t say that unlike a ward or a pentacle that needed anchors to exist, a Circle could exist without them, so long as there was enough power supporting it. Cut it off from the power source, and it vanishes. 

Like he said, Simple.

Rufus Scrimegeour squinted his eyes, and tilted his head slightly. While Harry was completely confident he wasn’t being legilimized, he still had the uncomfortable sensation of being scrutinised by a powerful intellect that spent decades ferreting out hidden truths. It was intimidating, bordering on unnerving.

“Your file claims that you have destroyed multiple dementors back in the summer of 1994 with a patronus charm. Both Albus Dumbledore and the rumours coming out of Hogwarts speak volumes about your competency, but I must ask, can you indeed take care of the dementors just by yourself? You have been through a harrowing experience after all.”

Harry shuddered a little. On the inside. Mostly because he didn’t want anyone to see it. 

Dementors were his fear, and despite his patronus, despite his Death thaumaturgy, it didn’t make it any less true that he was literally walking into their lair, where they would be waiting in hundreds, possibly thousands, ready to feed on the mounting anguish that was currently held by an iron grip. Shutting his eyes, he expanded his awareness, but could not find any trace of dementorish influence, not even a subtle drop in temperature.

He didn’t need to look around to know that every person on the trawler was looking at him. 

“Guess we’ll find out.” 

“All this is very interesting,” voiced James McDonald, one of the retired hit-wizards that had been brave and stupid enough to sign up for this mission. “But what I wanna know is why this thing, ward or Circle or whatever, is still up for all this time? Why not just take it down?”

“Can’t,” said the Head Auror. “The same ward that forces us to travel in this muggle vessel also keeps the dementors trapped inside the limits of the island. Without it, the dementors would be free to plague the entirety of the Wizarding world, and with no known spell to kill or maim them permanently, it would be a massacre. The Wizengamot agreed that this ward would also prevent any off-shore attempts to extradite the prisoners
.” He trailed off, and met Harry’s eyes who was staring at him with dubious mistrust.

“Do you have something to say, Potter?”

“Yes, why didn’t the Ministry just destroy the prison?”

“I just—”

“Yes, I heard  that,” interrupted Harry quite brazenly. “And apologies, but that’s like the flimsiest excuse one could think of. Destroying the prison would let the dementors run rampant, yes. But, I know for a fact that the Protego Maxima, the Fianto Duri, and the Salvio Hexia, all three protective enchantments can all repel dementors. Granted, they do nothing against the supernatural effects they have on our emotions, but those shields can stop them physically. And once you’ve trapped them
 Well, there’s always fiendfyre.”

“Not everyone is well-versed in dark magic like you, Potter,” muttered Proudfoot.

“I am the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Auror Proudfoot,” said Harry sweetly. “You can’t defend against what you don’t understand. Unless, you vote for another paper pushing frogface to take the chair? I thought one rebellion was enough.”

Proudfoot spluttered.

“As impressive as it is to see both of you bickering,” said Amelia Bones sternly. “I’d prefer it if you two focussed on the matter at hand.”

“I am focussing on the matter, Madam Bones,” said Harry, meeting her gaze. “Unless you mean to tell me that Wizarding Britain never had any talented wardsmiths capable of trapping and sealing the monsters into
 oh, I don’t know, the sea bed perhaps?”

Amelia’s mouth crinkled into a rueful expression, and Harry knew he was walking a thin line there. The Bones family had built their entire fortune upon producing quality wardsmiths and warding technologies. The Bones could trace their ancestry back to Queen Medb, and were legendary in their understanding of primordial runescraft, something so impossibly powerful and volatile that Wenlock did not even attempt to exercise the rules of Arithmancy upon them. To this day, primordial runes, much like the pentacle, remained part of the old school of magic.

For her to claim that her family couldn’t muster the collective strength or skill to bind the dementors down would smear her family name, and if she agreed with his conclusions, it would mean speaking against the Ministry in public. Either way, it would look terrible for the Iron Lady that supposedly put the ‘law’ above all else.

Harry was flirting with insubordination and he knew it.

“I have to ask, Potter,” said Rufus. “Just why are you so obsessed over wrecking that prison apart? I mean, it’s just a prison.”

A fleeting look of intense relief flickered across Amelia’s face, not having to answer the question. Harry scowled. Something told him that Rufus Scrimgeour was aiming to do exactly that, while turning the question on Harry again. If Harry wanted to pursue the topic, he would have to give more information.

Wonderful.

“What do you know about Ekrizdis?” He finally asked.

“Nothing apparently,” admitted Rufus. “Only the general idea of him being a dark wizard that constructed Azkaban back in the fifteenth century, and was charged with luring sailors to his island to serve his twisted experiments. Even the official Ministry records have precious little on the man.”

With reason, Harry thought. A part of him wondered if being a Warden to the Sunken Vault also meant dealing with one’s predecessor’s misdeeds. First Voldemort and his horcruxes, then Flamel and his association with the mysterious Cabal, and now Ekrizdis and his infamous construction Azkaban, all the while brushing against Wenlock’s establishment of Arithmancy and modern spellcraft, while working on crafting his own unique thaumaturgy based on Death.

“One more question, does the term Anima mean anything to you?”

“The realm of the spirits, from which all magic is born,” said the Director, narrowing her eyes. “Are you telling me that Ekrizdis was dragging dementors from the Anima itself?”

A rather quick jump to that conclusion. Amelia Bones was no Vessel, nor the Lady of the House. That bit went to Susan, or it would, when she reached her magical maturity or took her seat at the Wizengamot. And unless the DMLE Director was exempt from revealing her status as an Animagus, she wasn’t one, at least according to the list presented by the Department of Mysteries. Perhaps part of her pureblood education?

“No,” Harry said. “That’s not what I meant.”

Magical creatures were notoriously stubborn when it came to their natural environment. A unicorn would rather run itself into a spear and perish than spend a single moment in a battlefield. Giants suffered from intense vertigo if they lived in areas that were lesser in height than they were. And so on.

“Wait, there’s a Spirit world out there?” asked Proudfoot. “Beyond our own?”

“There is,” said Harry, easily falling back into what Daphne called his ‘professor-mode’. 

“The Anima, like Director Bones said, is the source of all magic," he said. “It’s what empowers us as witches and wizards, and where unicorns and dragons and thestrals and all magical creatures are believed to come from. Even our Family Magics. Hell, there are many who believe that it’s where souls originate, and return to, after death. A world of illusion, that which exists and yet doesn’t, and yet is connected to the real world at every step, every place. It’s what gives birth to ley lines, upon which we build our grandest monuments. And for those that can, it is technically possible to travel in and out of the Anima like one would, through open doors.”

“That makes sense,” said one of the hired wands whose name Harry didn’t know. “What with dragons and phoenixes and all that.”

“So let me ask you this,” said Harry, looking at the crowd expectantly. “Why is it that a world of untold and infinite possibilities ends up creating existences that are eerily similar to existing mundane species? Thestrals, unicorns, abraxans — they all have different characteristics, but share similarities with the muggle horse. The giant squid and the kraken, the hippocampus, and the different birds, hell, even the most common bird, the owls, have their mundane counterparts. Even us wizards and witches have counterparts in the mundane world. We call them muggles.”

It took a few moments for them to slowly realise what he was talking about.

It took twice as long for the realisation to sink in.

One could tell by the rapid vacation of colour on their faces.

“You — you cannot be serious,” said Rufus. 

Harry felt a pang in his heart as he almost made a Sirius-serious joke, and instead met the man’s eyes with a level gaze. 

“You asked me for the truth. If you want something palatable, the Daily Prophet’s office is that way.”

“Bollocks!” Proudfoot all but yelled. “A group of witches and wizards decided they had enough of living inside the Anima, and that it’d be fun dealing with crazy muggles that lived on the other side, so they just decided to flip in?” He leaned towards Harry in an intimidating manner. “Are we seriously listening to this drivel?”

“Maintain some distance, Auror Proudfoot,” Harry leaned back with an exaggerated expression of disgust. “Any closer and your nargles would start affecting me. Luna says they eat up your brains and leave rotten eggs behind.”

Proudfoot clenched his fists in anger. He would’ve retaliated but a sharp look from the Director kept him at bay.

“There are two answers to the obvious question,” said Harry. “The first, as supremacists and extremists would claim, is that we, the magicals were here first. Those that were lesser, carried weaker blood, lost their magic, and became muggles, or mundane creatures. More religiously inclined ones would claim that being born a muggle was divine punishment, accumulated bad karma from previous lives, or the effects of some insidious curse passed down from previous generations. That suffering a life without magic was a penance to clean away one’s sins, so that future generations would return back to their magical roots.”

“That’s Lord Arcturus Black's statement you’re reiterating, Potter,” said Amelia. “I didn’t think Sirius was raising you according to the Black family’s ideals.”

“It’s actually Godric Gryffindor’s ideal, Director,” said Harry with a small smile. “It’s why he was so willing to accept muggleborns into his House after Hogwarts was founded. He believed that muggleborns were precious, untainted, and could start anew. That they mostly turned out to be generalists at magic only confirmed his beliefs.”

“And you know this
 how?” challenged Proudfoot.

Harry shrugged and corporated Gryffindor’s blade.

“Yes, that’s the blade of Godric Gryffindor. No, I am not descended from him. Yes, I can summon the blade at will. No it doesn’t make me his heir by some bizarre logic,” he said at a stretch. “Does that answer your future questions?”

Nobody met his eyes. Even Amelia Bones looked a little embarrassed.

“Now, you can either follow Gryffindor’s logic, or simply believe and accept the harsh truth,” said Harry. “That the Anima encroaches upon Reality like an invasive entity, and whenever it gets a chance, it uses Magic to corrupt the world, corrupt reality, and twist it according to its own image. We’re witches and wizards, and magic is inherently a part of us, but that’s only because we ourselves are twisted creations of the original — the mundane. The muggles. Unlike energy, or the elements themselves, Magic is an extra, one that breaks the laws of physics through sheer viciousness.”

Everyone, including Madam Bones, stared at him, their eyes filled with revulsion at his claim.

“That —” Rufus began. “That cannot be right. Magic is
. I mean
”

Harry had to fight back from smiling cruelly at the man. “It’s not nice to think about, is it? The sun, the stars, the elements, the living and the inanimate, they are all part of the world, part of the natural order of things. If tomorrow, one of the elements would cease to exist, the world would perish. But can you say the same about Magic?”

Amelia Bones shifted her weight to one foot uncomfortably. As a descendant of another Ancient and Noble House, his statements were hitting her the hardest.

“The Founders knew this, as did Ekrizdis. He was a researcher that delved deep into the abstruse aspects of the Anima, and its corruptive effect on reality.”

“He was a Dark Lord!” Proudfoot insisted stubbornly.

“I think the term you’re looking for is dark wizard, Auror Proudfoot,” Harry shot him down easily. “Yes, he created this island and the fortress on it, and yes, he lured muggle sailors to experiment on them. But owning an island isn’t against the rules, and neither was it breaking the Statute of Secrecy, what with all the enchantments sealing it from mundane eyes. Hell, if we’re doing a comparison, I think the British Ministry of Magic has condemned more muggles and muggleborns through its open racism and bigotry than Ekrizdis ever did.”

“Your words are inflammatory, Potter!” accused Proudfoot. “What? You looking forward to walking in his footsteps?”

“He already is,” said Amelia Bones, surprising Harry. Proudfoot stared at her in confusion, giving her and Harry alternate looks. 

“But, Madam Bones, how do we know if any of it is even true? Potter’s been known to spin yarns just to attract attention. He —”

“Is a Warlock,” said Amelia, her stare stopping Proudfoot from speaking any further. “Let me remind you, Auror Proudfoot, that a Warlock is a title given to people that have strayed off the beaten track, and added to our understanding of Magic. And no, Auror Proudfoot, the title makes no distinction over what the Ministry agrees as standard or dark. Now do me a favour and point that wand down before you accidentally cast or poke someone in the eye or something.”

Proudfoot lowered his wand and put it away, suitably chastised.

Amelia Bones turned to Harry. “I have to ask though, Potter, just how do you have this information?”

Because he had extensively studied the man’s works from the Lair. But he couldn’t obviously reveal that here, could he?

Instead, he gave her a not-smile. “I did some research on the subject over the course of the term,” said Harry slowly. “Dementors are supposed to be amortal, and yet my Death thaumaturgy could kill them, like you mentioned during my interrogation at Hogwarts. I was actually planning to speak about this topic in the Inter-School Exchange programme.”

“I see,” said the Director. Even if she had noticed that he didn’t give her a clear idea about the source of his research, she didn’t comment on it.

“Ekrizdis was studying the creation of magical creatures, which for the record, includes us witches and wizards as well. He wanted to find out if the Anima’s corruption of mundane existences was an arbitrary process, or if it could be controlled, twisted, served to one’s own ends.”

“And he decided creating dementors was the next big idea?” challenged Proudfoot.

“I don’t know, some people might’ve a thing for wraiths with capes.”

Scrimgeour snorted at that.

“Look,” said Harry. “I wouldn’t claim to know Ekrizdis’ mind, but I will say this. If I‘m learning conjuration, I’d start by conjuring a pebble, not a life-size statue of Albus Dumbledore. Compared to the really complex magical existences out there, an empty wraith-like existence of warped up chaotic energy that just sucks in emotions and souls seems downright simple.”

“Simple,” Kingsley repeated again, shaking his head.

“Simple, is it?” snapped Proudfoot. “I bet you could whip out a dementor with a weekend off on your warlocking schedule!”

Harry flinched. Proudfoot had said that purely in anger, but Madam Bones looked surprised. Her face remained impassive, but it was clear she was paying attention. Rufus Scrimgeour on the other hand, looked at him and tilted his head slightly.

“Not a chance in hell,” Harry said quietly, and not entirely metaphorically. “I’m pretty sure I couldn’t muster that much energy in the first place to create a Circle as massive as that island. And even if I could, I wouldn’t have anything left to control it with.”

That was a lie. If he used Summer, he could leave the Circle perpetually open. Granted, Summer would invade Reality and turn the world back to the Cretaceous age or something, but hey, it was the principle of the matter.

“One of my abilities allows me to see magic as it is. I can study it, divide it into components and see how they tick. That’s exactly what we’ve been working on since the start of term. So when I look at a dementor, all I see is a hollow existence, a howling void that sucks in emotion and souls — both of which are intensely potent sources of magic. And I definitely don’t see anyway in which these soul-sucking monstrosities could ever reproduce.”

“And if they aren’t reproducing,” murmured the Director, her eyes wide open in shock. “It means —”

“Azkaban is churning out more of them, year after year,” said Rufus, paling, and coming to the worst, and most likely conclusion, given the circumstances. It was one thing to have an island that housed dementors and also served as a prisonhouse for the dregs of the society, and another for it to be a spawn point for one of the deadliest nightmarish beasts in the entire world.

A spawn point that was currently under the Death Eaters command.

“Amelia,” said the Head Auror after a moment of cold, anxious silence. “If what Potter says is true, then there’s a fair chance that all of our men are already dead, in which case, we’re probably leading these people to their doom.”

“And what do you suggest instead?” snapped Amelia, glaring at him.

“Why bomb the entire thing,” suggested Warren, lazily waving his wand. “Where magic doesn’t work, TNT might.”

Amelia opened her mouth to retort, but then closed it, reconsidering the validity of the proposal. “Wouldn’t work. The outer barrier is too strong. We need to scout the island first, but the enchantment won’t allow us to fly in via broomstick, or apparition.”

“I have a third option,” said Harry, staring at the sea. It was relatively calm at the moment but the waves were starting to rise, the initial signs of an oncoming storm. “I can do the scouting, and get the dementors busy. If nothing else, it’ll give you a chance to sneak in.”

“And how will you do that?” asked Rufus.

Harry smirked. “I have my ways.”

And then, his body morphed and went unseen.

The ability to be calm and still was critical to becoming invisible. It was hard to do when danger was close, and you were quite literally walking into it. But he arrested the adrenaline surge and regulated his breathing. With a small effort of will, he borrowed shadow and bent light, and vanished completely.

The next moment, his body shrinked, compacting into his owl form. Flapping his wings, he thrust himself into the air. The moment he crossed the ward line, he felt a sudden pressure attempting to disorient him, an owl-repelling ward in effect, and just for a moment, he felt like he was going to be seriously ill. Impressive as the ward was, it wasn’t built to hold back an owl empowered with Death.

As he came in sight of the large triangular pillar that rose out of the ocean, he saw the familiar dark shadowy forms floating in the air around the prison, and the sudden drop in the air temperature. 

But now as he stared down at the massive edifice, he felt like his brain had been frozen solid, as if literal bars of ice had been driven through each lobe. Like all the colour in the world had been sucked, leaving everything in grayscale. There was something deep inside the compound, in the heart of the tower, something so primal and wrong, that even the festering darkness of the nightmarish  beasts paled before it. Light flickers of ember, the souls of the captives flickered in the lower regions, which was good, because it meant the Aurors and hit-wizards were still alive; and bad, because it meant extreme measures were out of the question.

Standard spellcraft would not work, which meant communicating with the rest wasn’t an option, and the moment the trawler reached the island’s shores, the dementors would go rushing towards them. Whatever Harry needed to do, he’d have to accomplish within that time period.

He flew towards a corner of the prison, locating one of the few rooms with a window open. He swooped inside, morphing back to human form, the combination of Death and his invisibility staving off dementor attention. Next to him was a dark office, with a plaque WARDEN hanging upside down.  He slipped inside, and staggered back, meeting the eyes of a man pinned against the wall, a dagger driven through his mouth all the way into the stone. Two more through either palm. The body was still shaking, as if still alive, but the glassy eyes spoke of a different story, staring at Harry, as if accusingly, while blood seeped down his robes and pooled down on the floor.

It made him want to throw up.

Even monsters deserved better. At least the killing curse sundered the soul in a single go, giving a painless death. This man had been left to die slowly, only to be administered the dementors’ kiss. To have his soul sucked away by the monstrosities, leaving the brain and bodily functions intact and slowly bleeding like that
.

Every passing second dwelling on it made him almost blind with rage.

Good. He would use it to focus and play the role of the long overdue grim reaper in this deathless joke of a hellhole. He would show them what true demons were like. He would take the darkness festering in the heart of this island and obliterate it in a single go. 

But first


A thin ray of greyish light shot out of his finger and hit the corpse. Maybe he had imagined it, but there was a faint smile of relief on the corpse as it disintegrated to dust and blew away in the wind.

Crouching, he spotted half a dozen dementors that came darting toward the warden’s office with a slow, somehow arachnid grace. Two of them were almost bounding along the rooftops,  while the rest were gliding in a spideresque fashion at terrible speed. To normal eyes, they probably looked little more than flickering shadows moving with sinister purpose.

The tempest in his chest suddenly raged, and as Harry watched them disappear around the next corner, he felt like he was staring at cockroaches that were somehow finding a way to wriggle into places they shouldn’t be, and the rage rose from his chest to his eyes, and his reflection in the stained glass window tinted just a little grey.

The dementors were here.

As were Death Eaters.

His hand reached into his pouch and pulled the silvery cloak out. The Potter Cloak of Invisibility rose into the air, folding onto itself, becoming thicker, heavier, morphing to form a standard hooded, billowing cloak instead of the silvery mass of drapes. The hood forming over his head hid his features, with just enough darkness to reveal the glowing yellow eyes within.

The blade of Godric Gryffindor corporated in his left hand, just like his yew wand came spinning into his right. 

And then, gathering up his fury and pain, honing them like immaterial blades, Harry went after them.