Harry Potter and the Solstice Conspiracy

Chapter 1: Cell Block 651

The tumultuous waves crashed heavily against the stone foundations of Azkaban prison, sending sea spray as high as five stories up into the air. The wind whipped against the beaten stone bricks that rose high in the dark sky, a colossal monument in the middle of nowhere. It had been a long time since the dark, cloaked dementors rode the cold air around the building, slowly and methodically sapping the life out of the inhabitants of the prison. And though none of these creatures held dominion out here anymore, their absence did not give the place a brighter, or perhaps more hospitable atmosphere. Indeed, the prison remained as it once was - cold, isolated, and dark.

Storm clouds hovered above the prison on this late summer night, threatening to unleash a torrential downpour, but holding back their fury for something inexplicable. The weather was never comfortable in these parts, but as of late the waters crushed against the prison with increased vigor. On more than several occasions Ministry officials traveling to the prison got blown off course on their brooms, and in one incident a Ministry bureaucrat nearly drowned before being saved by the Sentries on duty. Of course flying to Azkaban was never an appealing prospect, but Apparition to the fortress had been ruled out long ago, a security nightmare in the making. As of now, the only way to Azkaban was by Portkey. The blue lights of the occasional travelers shown for miles, and it had become a common occurrence for Obliviators to modify the memories of Muggle shippers who caught glimpses of these lights. But that was far better than having to deal with any of the prisoners escaping their cells.

A blue light sparkled on the top floor of Azkaban, and a young cloaked wizard appeared clutching an old coffee tin. His ebony cloak billowed in the wind, and the moment he appeared a light drizzle started to fall. He glanced upwards, in time for a flash of lightning to illuminate his dazzling green eyes and the matching lightning scar on his forehead, before hearing the deep, booming thunder. An older, but shorter wizard waited on the platform. After another moment's hesitation, Harry Potter strode forward and clasped the old wizard's hand.

"Safe journey?" he asked, as he gestured Harry into the entrance hall.

"Safe enough, Warden," Harry said, lowering his hood. His brown hair remained as messy as usual, though slightly damp from the rain. A small but strong fire crackled in the nearby fireplace. The stone walls did not retain heat, and he pulled his cloak closer to him to prevent himself from shivering. The warden escorted Harry over to a large oak desk, occupied by a wizened witch with a black quill in her hand.

"Name and office?" she asked without looking up.

"Harry James Potter, Auror," he answered. She jotted down this information, and looked up.

"Wand and badge number," she demanded. Harry slipped out his wand and set it on the desk.

"Badge number 34212." She wrote this information down, and then waved her own wand. A small, silver mirror appeared on the top of the desk.

"Please look into the mirror until I verify your identity." Harry raised an eyebrow and looked over at the Warden, who smiled knowingly.

"Can't be too careful," he said as Harry looked into the mirror. "The prison was always safer under the watch of Dementors, but as we can't have those, this is as good as it gets."

Harry did not respond. Dementors may have made excellent guards when they were loyal, but he did not forget just how fickle they were in their allegiance to the Ministry. Preferring to focus on his own image rather than think of those old menaces, Harry stared straight into the eyes of his reflection. A silver beam of light connected the both of them, and his eyes started to water.

"Very good, identity checks out," the witch said finally. She handed him back his wand. She whirled her wand again and a small slip of parchment appeared. "This is your visitor's ID number, should there be any questions during your visit. Remember it." Harry looked down at the ID number, committed it to memory, and then tapped it once with his wand. The parchment blackened as it burned, and then disappeared into a faint wisp of ash.

"Very well then Mr. Potter," the Warden said with a grin. He gestured to a large, wrought iron door at the far end of the room. Their footsteps echoed as they approached.

"No guards?" Harry asked, looking around. On his last visit they had stationed wizards on guard duty.

"Easily bribed, and often incompetent," the Warden said, waving his hand. "We're using Sentries nowadays. Not as good as Dementors, but effective nonetheless." Harry's eyebrows rose again, and they reached the large doorway. Silver symbols gleaming in the darkness danced on the archway of the doorway.

"The runes are an extra security measure?" Harry asked, and the Warden nodded.

"Like I said, can't be too careful, especially since the last breakout." Harry nodded. The security of Azkaban prison remained a fiercely debated topic at the Ministry. Ever since the Dementors defected to Lord Voldemort breakouts occurred far too frequently for the place to be considered a prison. Rita Skeeter herself called Azkaban a 'revolving door', and though the majority of the wizarding populace did not want a return of the Dementors, the support for the creatures had not yet died out completely.

The Warden tapped the door three times with his wand, and Harry felt a cold breeze whisk past him. On either side of the door stood two silvery figures, ten feet tall; at first they seemed like ghosts, but they shifted in and out of invisibility, rippling in and out of vision like waves in a pond. Their faces looked monstrous, distorted and decayed, and their hands clutched tall silver lances that ended in sharp points.

"Imposing," Harry said, casting a dark glance at the Sentries.

"Oh yes, and dangerous when provoked," the Warden replied as the iron gates swung open with a loud creak. "Of course, they're much more controllable than Dementors, as they do not feed or have minds of their own. They are bound to the prison, and in that sense they are very driven to protect it. Takes a bit of unsavory magic to create them, but together with the runes we've been using, Azkaban has gotten back a bit of its reputation." The Warden seemed very satisfied. As the two of them descended into a long, spiraling staircase, Harry found himself uncomfortable with the Warden's presence.

"Perhaps not a reputation it necessarily wants back," Harry responded. The Warden chuckled.

"Still the optimist," the Warden said. "Maybe your youth makes you idealistic. A prison should be feared, and the Dementors ensured that fear. Dementors made you think twice before committing a crime. There is justice in the sort of retribution that Dementors doled out."

"Justice does not punish crime with a crime," Harry said, and the Warden smirked.

"Fair enough. But I wonder, why do you insist on visiting us often, when you so clearly have distaste for it?"

"Because this building is the perfect way to remind oneself that even the best of intentions lead to the foulest of acts," Harry said, and he stopped at another large iron gate.

"You're going to this floor?" the Warden asked, looking both puzzled and alarmed.

"Of course, I come every year," Harry responded, "this year a bit later than usual. Usually when I arrive Warden Smith is on duty."

"Very well then. I await you in the entrance hall for when you check out. And try not to disturb the sleeping ones."

"I'll do my best," Harry said with a nod of his head, and then turned to the door. He tapped it three times with his wand, and then entered.

Moss covered the stone walls, which always remained dank and dark. Only a few torches remained lit in this hallway, and the shadows that danced in the nooks and crannies made shapes in the mind, filled one with unease. Harry did indeed come every year, but it never got comfortable, never settled in as a routine. Much of what he did nowadays fit that description. But the atmosphere, laced with fear, filled with anger, always struck Harry deep down. The taint of the Dementors did not leave this place, but whatever hole their absence formed, the despair of the prisoners filled it.

"Lumos," Harry muttered, and brilliant silver light filled the room. At the sound of his spell, runes of various shapes and sizes scrolled across the walls. For a moment Harry felt that he had defied some sort of protection, but before he extinguished his wand the runes had settled back into obscurity, receding into the stone walls of Azkaban. In the glare of his wand he saw a bronze placard on the right hand wall, reading: "Cell Block 651".

Harry walked deliberately down the hall. After a few moments the cells themselves became visible. Bars of iron marked the entrances, and out of the corner of his eye Harry could see the silvery forms of the Sentries at every gate. He read the name plates of each cell as he walked, cataloguing them, as they remained a tribute and a triumph of the work he, and many others, had done.

The names read as a roster of the Death Eaters, powerful supporters of Lord Voldemort before his fall. Amycus Carrow was the first name that Harry saw, one of the two Carrow siblings that reigned with terror over Hogwarts School. His sister, Alecto, inhabited the cell next to him. Both were sleeping, though Harry had no idea how they could find rest in this place, and with themselves. As he walked further he saw other names, some more familiar to him than others. Pius Thicknesse, who had acted as Voldemort's puppet Minister, sat crouched in the corner of his cell, lost in his own thoughts. After him lay Walden Macnair, and even in the darkness Harry could still see the malice in his eyes. Augustus Rookwood, Ministry spy, who gasped when he saw Harry pass and then hid his face in his hands. A few names he did not recall, and some he only heard in passing during the battle in the Department of Mysteries: Mulciber, Nott, and Crabbe. As Harry walked, some of the cells remained empty. The cell of Fenrir Greyback would always remain empty; he had died in an attempt to escape the prison. Antonin Dolohov's cell also empty; he had escaped long before the newest security measures had been put in place. A few others had also escaped: Jugson's and Yaxley's cells were also empty. Harry reached the last cell, and with sadness he read the placard: Stanley Shunpike.

Stan slept on the small cot in the cell, a copy of the Daily Prophet covering his chest. Harry looked down in pity at him, and for a moment he considered not disturbing him. He thought better of it, coughed, and whispered, "Stan."

Stan shuddered in his sleep, and he rolled over, the newspaper sliding off of him. The sound of the paper slithering onto the floor echoed through the hall, and Stan opened his eyes. At the sight of Harry, he leapt up and rushed over to the bars, stopping just short of them. He did not want to touch the bars.

"Blimey, it's you 'Arry!" Stan shouted.

"Not so loud," Harry whispered, glancing anxiously down the hall. "We don't want to disturb anyone."

"Sorry, I'm just glad to see you. You look older every year," he said.

"Are you holding up all right?" Stan's eyes started to water.

"Better wiffout them Dementors," Stan mumbled. "But it's 'orrible in 'ere, just 'orrible."

"I know, we're working on it," Harry said. "It's taking a lot more than I expected it to."

"I've bin readin' the papers, and loads of people are gettin' orf," Stan said. "Ol' Lucius Malfoy got cleared dinnit 'e?"

"Yeah, the Wizengamot cleared the entire Malfoy family," Harry said. "They did do some good things for us towards the end."

"I never supported You-Know-'Oo," Stan said, and he wiped a tear away on the back of his hand.

"I know Stan, I know. I've been keeping your case alive in the Auror's Office, and Arthur Weasley - he runs the department - has been keeping it on the schedule. Even Kingsley Shacklebolt wants your case reviewed."

"So wha's the 'old-up?" Stan asked.

"The Wizengamot's been held up in discussions on everything else. Escaped Death Eaters we need to track, a werewolf rebellion lead by Friedrich Wargen, goblins demanding more control over Gringotts, the whole nine yards. Rebuilding the Ministry isn't an easy feat. And they refuse to look over Death Eater cases until everything else is dealt with."

"T'ain't fair," Stan said. "I never did noffink."

"We're trying our best," Harry repeated, and the more he said it the more it sounded empty. "The most we can do is keep it in everyone's attention so that it doesn't slip in the cracks. A friend of mine at the Prophet is planning on doing a piece on your case, Stan. She'll do her best to get the public's awareness. Believe me, we're trying." Stan looked up, his eyes still sparkling with tears.

"I know you are, 'Arry. It's just...After You-Know-'Oo died I thought it'd be easier."

"I did too," Harry admitted. It had been six years since the defeat of Lord Voldemort, and while the Ministry had taken great strides in rebuilding, there was still so very much left to do.

"I 'ear that Umbridge bat is gettin' a trial," Stan said, and Harry nodded.

"Took awhile to get there, but yes, she's on trial. Took a lot of persuading to do, she's still well placed at the Ministry. But I don't see what she can use as a defense for the things she did. There's no way the Wizengamot can let her off."

"You're in it, aren't you? Says so in the papers."
"Yes. Kingsley's given me and a few others special privileges in the rebuilding," Harry nodded.

"Good. You're a good person, 'Arry. You'll make sure they get what's comin' to 'em."

"I'll try, Stan," Harry responded. "In the mean time I'm going to work with Warden Smith to get you moved out of this hall. I can't promise results but I will promise to try."

"Bless you, 'Arry Potter," Stan said. Harry wanted to clasp hands with him, pat him on the shoulder, make some sort of contact to reassure Stan that it would be all right, surely, in the end. But the magical protection of the cell forbade any contact, and the most he could do was meet his eyes, and give him a reassuring gaze. Stan nodded, wiped his tears away again. Harry meant to say something else, but a cackle echoed through the hallway.

"Oh he'll try, Stan, but his word is useless," the voice rang out. It was a woman's voice, and it belonged to Alecto Carrow, who must have woken while they spoke. Harry ignored the woman, and turned to Stan.

"Are they treating you all right in here?"

"'Lil bit better," Stan said, settling on the grimy floor. "They're lettin' me take the paper, and it gives me somethink to do."

"Good, good. I had to make a few visits to get that to happen."

"Any way I can get visitors?" Stan asked hopefully. "I've bin waitin' for my sister. She'll 'ave gone 'round the bend 'opin and wishin' me to get out."

"Afraid not yet Stan," Harry said, his voice filled with regret. "You're in the most guarded cell block in this place, I don't think that they'll let in your sister."

"They let you in," he said in a whisper.

"I know, but that's because I've got Auror's privileges. Not to mention the approval of the acting Minister. I had to pull a lot of strings to get here."

"It's 'Ell in 'ere," Stan said with a shudder. "Sometimes I 'ear them talkin', those nutters down the 'all. Whisperin' things to each other."

"Can you hear them?" Harry asked, his own voice lowered. "Can you make out what they say?"

"Not much, 'Arry. They're careful, they know you visit. Sometimes I hear them whispering about You-Know-'Oo. Maybe they reckon he's still alive. Bidin' 'is time again." Stan looked up fearfully at Harry, who gave him a kind smile.

"He's gone. Definitely dead this time." Stan took a deep breath.

"I knew it, but they said so last time. He's a scary bloke, You-Know-'Oo. Even now thinkin' of 'im gives me the collywobbles."
"And you're quite sure you don't remember anything from when he had you under the Imperius Curse?" Harry asked. He posed this question every time he visited, never really expecting it to change, but it became part of the ritual.

"Noffink," Stan said sadly. "I wish I could, 'Arry. Anythink to get me out of 'ere."

"You hang in there Stan, we'll get you out. It's only a matter of time."

"I know," Stan said again, tearing up again. "Don't forget me ok?"

"I won't. I'll visit again soon," Harry whispered to Stan, and he walked down the hallway. Many of the Death Eaters stirred, having been awoken by Alecto's cackle. As he passed most of them jeered, but he ignored them. He made to exit the place, but Alecto spoke again.

"Leaving so soon, Potter? Not going to try and whittle away some information from us this time?"

Harry stopped and turned, displeasure radiating from him like heat.

"Information? You've been in here for six years, Alecto. You've got nothing to offer me except empty words and a splitting headache."

"You'd think so, Potter," she said quietly. "So cocky in victory, so sure of yourself."

"Oh no, I'm not cocky. I'm just content in knowing that you're behind bars and your master is dead." Harry smirked and made to leave, when she spoke again.

"Not as dead as you'd like." Her voice was barely above a whisper, but Harry heard every word of it. He saw her, sitting on the floor of her cell, a nasty smile spread across her face. Her black hair, disheveled and uneven, covered her eyes. He crouched so that they were face to face, and he spoke clearly, and evenly.

"Not even Voldemort can survive a Killing Curse," he said. She uttered a soft scream at the sound of Voldemort's name.

"But you did, Potter. You survived where none else seemingly survived."

"Trust me when I say that Voldemort, Tom Riddle, did not," Harry said. "Or maybe you're too unhinged to realize the truth? I finished your master six years ago, and not a day has passed since that the rest of the wizarding world isn't grateful for it."

"Oh some are grateful, that is true," Alecto snarled, her face mere inches away from the bars of her cell. "But there are some things that the Killing Curse can't kill, can't touch." Harry narrowed his eyes, and she held up her left arm, revealing the Dark Mark, still as dark as it was when Voldemort had returned.

"And what is that?" Harry asked.

"An idea, Potter. A grand idea far above any that you have." Harry wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Anything Voldemort wanted or planned for died with him years ago," Harry said, standing up. "You're all finished."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Potter," Alecto said, and she uttered a tinkling laugh that sounded of her malice, of cruel amusement. "There are those outside the walls of Azkaban that bear the Dark Mark, and those who don't, but many of both carry the words of the Dark Lord, and will see to it that this world is not the happy place you aim to make it."

"Enough," Harry said.

"There is movement abroad," Alecto said, in almost a sing song voice. "Whispers and plans, all behind your back, away from your ears. You'll never be as smart or as cunning as the Dark Lord, or even your old friend Dumbledore. It's only a matter of time before you hear from us again."

"You don't scare me Alecto," Harry hissed. "I'll be sure to catch every one of your fellow Death Eaters, and every time I do I'll have them carry a message to you."
"And what's that, baby Potter?" Harry leaned over one more time, and spoke clearly so all of the hall could hear.

"That there is no house for you or your ideas except the walls of this prison," Harry said, and with a swish of his cloak he left the cell block, now ringing with laughter and jeers.

Harry stomped up the curving staircase, his ears ringing with anger and frustration, and he stormed into the entrance hall of the prison. He shouldn't have let Alecto get to him; after all, she never was that close to Voldemort, in that inner circle of power. Yet the fact that she seemed to think that the Death Eaters still posed a threat to the wizarding world unnerved him. He never considered letting those that had escaped go free, but it also never occurred to him that they might rally. Considering it further, it seemed even more unlikely. Who would they follow now that Voldemort had died? To whom would they turn?

Harry saw the Warden chatting merrily to the witch at the desk, and he pulled his hood over his head.

"Leaving so soon, Mr. Potter?"

"Not soon enough." The Warden smirked, and walked with Harry outside. The weather had gotten considerably worse. The waves pounded against the walls of the prison, and forked bolts of lightning hurled themselves across the inky black sky.

"Your cell block may be in uproars for the next few hours, I'm afraid," Harry shouted over the wind. The Warden sighed.

"It always is. I loathe having interrogators or questioners in that cell block. What I wouldn't do to have them all given the Kiss." Harry closed his eyes. The longer he stayed in this fortress, in the presence of this man, the more he grew angry.

"I'll be filing for a change of cell for Stan Shunpike. He shouldn't be in that cell block. If you move him of your own accord, I'll be extremely grateful. But I will be filling out the paperwork sooner rather than later."

"You believe his codswallop about being Imperiused? That He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named actually used him against his will?" The Warden's face, already obscured by rain and darkness, contorted itself into an expression of disbelief.

"I'm sure of it," Harry said. "I'll be in touch." The Warden nodded his head and retreated into the prison. Harry clutched a hand around the coffee tin, and with a flash of blue light shooting out into the night sky, he was gone.