Out of The Darkness

January 13, 1996 - Azkaban

Once more he opens his eyes to the dull cell that has been his home for the last who-knows-how-long? The sunlight filters dimly through the small slit that serves as a window, long ago covered up by thick cobwebs that he has neither the will nor the inclination to remove.

As the haze of sleep leaves him, the constant presence of his evil guardians seems dimmer than usual. The previous night was a rare one in this place; the images that have haunted him each night for the past years were blissfully absent. For once he has been given a welcome break from the memories, from the pain. Everything he has ever regretted; everything that has hurt him in the past; everything he would rather forget has been brought crashing back to him each night since being brought to this place.

These things are practically all he can remember. He doesn't even know his name any more. There are only two things he remembers besides the regrets that plague him day and night. These are the things that keep him sane when everybody else is breaking down or dying.

One is the name of his Lord, his Master and his God. He knows, deep within him, that Lord Voldemort will rise again and set him free. He knows that he will be rewarded for the loyalty that he has shown.

The second thing is also a name. He cannot remember why this name is so important to him; he knows only that this person must be punished for something.

That person is Harry Potter.

As the day wears on, the presence of the Dementors continues to fade. The grey haze of despair that has been a part of his life for so long begins to lift, and he begins to sense things that have previously gone unnoticed.

For the first time in years he hears the sound of waves breaking on the rocks surrounding Azkaban. He feels the heat from the thin shaft of sunlight that has managed to shine through the webs obscuring his window.

He notices for the first time how the years have taken their toll on the chains holding him here - once thick and strong; they have rusted so badly since being attached to him that they would not survive any attempt to remove them.

With this thought in mind, he draws from some forgotten reserve of strength and yanks his arm away from the wall. With a brittle crack the chain breaks away from the rusted loop on the wall, leaving him wearing a manacle and two feet of chain around his wrist, but leaving him free.

For the first time in years, he tries to stand. Unsurprisingly he fails, falling first to his knees and then onto his face. From this brief movement alone he is left shattered, and cannot move for what feels like hours, but is probably closer to twenty minutes.

Again he tries to stand, and again he fails, a pattern that is repeated until he realises that the walls that once were his enemies are now his friends. Once more he stands, but this time aims at the wall when he begins to stumble, holding himself upright on the cold, damp stone.

With great trepidation he begins to take his first steps in fifteen years. He travels the few feet along the wall to the door, stopping to catch his breath, then removing one hand slowly from the wall and placing it on the door. There is no handle on this side, but there is a barred opening in the top, and it is one of these bars he takes a loose, painful grip on.

Pulling with all his remaining strength, he is not surprised when the door refuses to move. In desperation he grips the bars with both hands, leaning backwards so that all his weight rests on the bars. He can feel the sharp rust tearing at his palms, can feel his unused muscles straining, but it is no good. All his energy spent, he leans hard against the door in defeat.

As his weight hits the door it swings open, causing him to fall to the ground once more. He skids across the dusty floor, his chain rattling loudly. After catching his breath on the ground once more, he stands, heading straight for the nearest wall, before looking around to see where he is.

He stands in a long corridor. Countless doors identical to the one he has come through can be seen on each side of the corridor, running as far as the eye can see in both directions.

Randomly, he picks a direction and heads down it, hugging the wall Every few minutes he stops to catch his breath, although the time between breaks gradually grows longer. After what must be a few hours he reaches a junction with another corridor. He is walking unaided now, and the stops are infrequent and brief.

Following this new path, it is not long before He comes to a large room. In the wall opposite is a door much like the ones leading to the cells, and it is this he heads for. This one has a handle on the inside, which he turns. The door refuses to open, however, no matter how hard he twists, pushes and pulls.

Defeated, he slumps against the doorjamb. A small, sharp nail is sticking out there? and it digs into his side painfully. The pain causes him to fall to his knees, and this is when he notices the ring. A large hoop of metal lies on the floor next to his left knee, and on it is a key.

For the first time that he can remember, he feels happiness. It is like an explosion in his chest, this new feeling that is oh-so-different from the despair he has become accustomed to. This new feeling spreads through his body, and soon he is laughing.

The laughter wracks his weak frame, shaking him uncontrollably and tearing at his throat without mercy. His ears are pounding and as the sound echoes back to him it only gets worse. But it feels good. The sound is reverberating around the fortress long after he has lost the ability to make noise, and his body continues to shake with happiness as the sun dips below the horizon.

And that is when he hears it, the soft, irregular lap of water on the hull of a boat. The crunch as it beaches; the low groaning of the rope as it is moored up. And then the thud of feet on rock as somebody comes towards the door. As quickly as he can he picks himself up off the ground and tries to conceal himself behind where the door will open. As he hears the harsh click of the key in the lock, he begins to sink back into the despair he is so used to. Will he be locked back in his cell, now that he is so close to freedom?

The door swings open with a squeal of rusty hinges, and a tall, powerfully built man steps through. He has a wand clutched tightly at his side, and seems to be looking for something.

"Lumos," he hears the man whisper. The bright light from the wand burns his eyes, but the man does not seem affected. The man moves forward further, and he sees his chance. Slowly, quietly, he creeps out from behind the door until he is behind the man. Then he lifts up his manacled arm, and brings the chain down as hard as he can across the top of the man's head.

The crunch when the metal breaks his flesh brings back fond memories, so he does it again. He wants to remember. The man has fallen to the floor, the top of his head caved in, a pool of blood quickly spreading out around him.

He crouches down to the man and dips a finger into his blood, raising it up to his lips. Licking it off, he smiles widely. Oh, how he remembers that taste.

Taking the man's wand, he moves back towards the partially open door. He heads outside, savouring his newfound freedom. The man's wand is held loosely in his hand, casting a bright glow across the rocky shore. Climbing into the boat that the dead man arrived in, he is about to push off when he hears voices from the darkness.

"What's that light?"

"Must be another Auror. Avada Ked..."

"No. Let's have some fun with this one. Crucio!" The spell hits, and pain engulfs his already weak body. Over his screams can be heard the cold, merciless laughter of the two men. Then the pain abruptly stops, although his entire body is throbbing, and the one who cast the spell speaks.

"Let's see who we've got here then." He hears the two men approaching, and then they are looking down on him. One has a long, sneering face. The other's face is marked as though he had suffered badly from acne when younger, and his hair seems extraordinarily greasy, even for somebody who hasn't been able to wash it for years.

The pockmarked man frowns when he looks down on him and then looks up at the other.

"I don't think he's an Auror, Antonin." The long-faced one frowns also.

"Who are you?"

He attempts to answer, his mouth moving silently for a few seconds as his voice catches in his throat. Then he finds his voice, although it hurts to speak after so long.

"I can't remember." The man raises his eyebrow, a scornful smile twisting his face. The other man looks him up and down, his eyes resting on the bloody manacle around his wrist and the illuminated wand still clutched in his fist.

"First thing's first..." the man mutters, taking hold of the wand. "Nox." The light vanishes, and he is blind for a few seconds before his eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. "Now, where did you get that wand?"

"Auror," he says, nodding towards Azkaban. The man's eyes find the chain again, and he nods.

"Right, enough small talk. We're going." Antonin climbs into the boat, causing it to rock violently, and the other man follows, pushing the boat free from the rocks once he is in.

"Here, have this." The wand is tossed to him, and he tightens his fist around it.

"Where are we going?" Antonin smiles at this, and when he answers it is obvious why.

"Where do you think? To find Lord Voldemort."