Exile?

EXILE

- - -

From 'Harry and the Order of the Phoenix', Chapter 8.

Harry looked at his feet. His heart, which seemed to have swollen to an unnatural size, was thumping loudly under his ribs. He had expected the hearing to last longer than this. He was not at all sure that he had made a good impression. He had not really said very much. He ought to have explained more fully about it that Dementors, about how he had fallen over, about how both he and Dudley had nearly been kissed ...

Twice he looked up to Fudge and opened his mouth to speak, but his swollen heart was now constricting his air passengers and both times he made it took deep breaths and looked back down at his shoes.

Then the whispering stopped. Harry wanted to look up at the judges, but found it was really much, much easier to keep examining his laces.

'Those in favour of clearing the witness of all charges?' said Madam Bones's booming voice.

Harry's head jerked upwards. There were hands in the air ...

- - -

As we know, Harry was cleared. But what might have happened if the vote had gone the other way? If Harry actually were found guilty? Read on ...

- - -

“And those in favour of conviction?”

First one hand, then another, then another, rose into the air. Madam Bones scanned the dungeon. There were very many hands in the air. In fact ... Harry looked around, not believing what he was seeing ... it looked as though more than half of them were in the air. At least more than half. Harry gulped – there must be some mistake! They couldn't have – but they had ... then, slowly, one by one, the hands began to go down again. Eventually, the last hand descended.

The court suddenly became very still. In desperation, Harry looked around the courtroom from face to face, but no one would look him in the eye. People were looking at the ceiling, at their neighbours, at their hands – anywhere but at Harry. Bewildered, he still hadn't quite taken in the idea that they had found him guilty. Had Mrs Figg's evidence counted for nothing? Had they merely taken him for a deluded liar? He suddenly began to feel very sick.

He looked at Percy, expecting some reaction from him, but Percy was bent over his scroll of parchment, scribbling furiously. He looked across at Dumbledore for help, but Dumbledore wasn't looking back at him. For the first time in his life, Harry saw Dumbledore at a loss. It was obvious the verdict had stunned him. Harry began to feel really afraid now. If Dumbledore couldn't sort this out, who could?

Fudge had turned towards him now, and was eyeing him with a very sanctimonious gleam in his eye. Harry gulped, wandering what was to come next. Expelled from Hogwarts? Wand snapped? Back to the Dursleys? No, not that – at least he had Sirius and Grimmauld Place.

“Harry Potter, this court has found you guilty as charged.” A triumphant smirk began to show on his face as he looked at Harry. “Aurors. Take this boy away.”

There was almost total silence in the dim chamber as two figures stood up. But someone else rose to his feet at the same time: Dumbledore.

“You have not yet pronounced any sentence,” Dumbledore reminded the Minister. “Would you care to tell us why is the boy being taken from the court when he has not yet been sentenced?”

Fudge gave him the same smug smile as he had given to Harry.

“The sentence will be announced later. For the moment, the boy will be held in custody.”

Held in custody? Does that mean they were going to lock him up? They can't mean that, thought Harry wildly.

“Held in custody? For a case of using magic underage?” Dumbledore asked in an incredulous tone.

“I believe that is what I had just said,” announced Fudge, stiffly, looking down at his papers, then gathering them together, shuffling them into a neat pile.

Dumbledore looked hard at the Minister. “I trust then, Cornelius, that you will publicise this case widely. Very widely indeed. So that parents will be fully aware what fate awaits their child should they at any time in the future perform some spell at home, for whatever reason, no matter how justified. That, as a result, their children may be locked away at the whim of the Ministry.”

“The whim of the Ministry?” Fudge looked outraged. “May I remind you, Dumbledore, that the boy has just been found guilty by this court? And, in any case, any announcement is a matter for the Ministry and certainly nothing to do with you.”

Harry watched the two of them sparring, as did the rest of the court. The two Aurors stayed where they were, looking from Fudge to Dumbledore and back again.

“So the Ministry, not content with applying the rigour of its law to the fullest extent, then hides its actions from its citizens?”

“There is nothing to hide,” Fudge declared indignantly. “I have already told you: an announcement will be made in due course. And may I remind you, Dumbledore, that you carry no authority within this courtroom. Any further action in this matter is solely a matter for the Ministry. And for no one else.”

Fudge's tone was very final.

Dumbledore looked up at the faces of the people on the rows of benches above him. So did Harry. Most eyes were averted again, others were fixed once more on some point on the far wall as though it were deeply fascinating. Only a few were looking at him with anything that approached sympathy.

“You would condemn a boy to prison for this?” Dumbledore asked the assembly in a ringing tone.

There was a long, deep, uncomfortable silence. It went on for what seemed to be an age. Harry felt sure someone was going to stand up and support him. Madam Bones, perhaps? But she sat in her seat, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Enough!” snapped Fudge eventually. “Aurors. Do your duty.”

Harry felt his elbows being grasped.

“On your feet, lad.”

Harry suddenly found his voice.

“No! Professor – you can't let them do this ...”

But Dumbledore was not looking at him. Nor were many in the chamber. The toad faced witch was. Fudge was. Both of them had triumphant sneers on their faces.

He was being lifted to his feet.

“No!”

“Come quietly, boy, or it'll be the worse for you.”

“You're going to lock me up!”

“You're going to be detained in custody, that's all.”

“Yeah. Locked up ...”

But he had been hoisted out of the chair. He struggled as hard as he could, and lashed out with his feet. One of the Aurors yelped, and fell back. He felt his elbows being released, then one of the Aurors, in a grimmer voice, said “If that's how you want it ...”

Harry felt ropes binding themselves around his body, pinning his arms to his side, locking his legs together.

“Mobilicorpus!”

Harry was now suspended a few inches above the ground, hanging helpless.

“Is this how you treat a child?” came the thunderous voice of Dumbledore. And Harry could also hear the shouts and cries of protest from around the chamber as people eventually found their voices.

“Prisoners should not resist arrest,” came the grim voice of Fudge. “Take him away.”

Harry heard himself screaming as he was steered towards a doorway. “No! Professor! No!”

“Silencio!”

His screams were cut off. The door opened, and he was forced through into the passageway beyond. It slammed shut again behind him, cutting off the noise from the chamber. He was being steered along a dimly lit corridor at wandpoint. He jerked and struggled, trying to break free, but it made no difference.

“In here.”

Harry found himself in a small cell, open to the corridor, but, as soon as he was inside, he heard an iron gate slamming shut behind him. The ropes fell away, and he crumpled to the floor. He looked up to see the Aurors the other side of the bars, turning away, leaving him alone. He looked round the cell, still not quite yet believing what was happening to him.

There was a bed in one corner, covered in a thin blanket. In another corner was a toilet, but no washbasin. The walls and floor were of plain, damp, cold stone. He could already felt the cold cutting into him: he had left Grimmauld Place that morning dressed for a summer's day, not the floor of a damp stone cell. He picked himself up and staggered over to the bed, pulling the thin blanket over him – not that its dampness made him feel any warmer. He shivered, sick to his stomach. Dully, he realised that the whole thing had been rigged from the outset. He could have brought a hundred witnesses as to the presence of the Dementors, and it would have mattered not one jot.

Just as he thought that things could get no worse, the lights went out in the corridor outside. He was plunged into a thick stygian darkness. He held up a hand in front of his face. It might well have not been there. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. He might as well not bothered. Despairing, he curled up into a ball on the bed and pulled the skimpy blanket over himself.

Dumbledore! When he had seen Dumbledore come in, he thought he was saved. How could Dumbledore have allowed this to happen to him? Why had Dumbledore refused even to spare him a glance? And the Weasleys! What were they now doing? Were they at this moment appealing against the decision, working to get him out of here? Yes, they must be. He'd be out and back in Grimmauld Place in a few hour's time. He was sure to be! They wouldn't let him rot in here. He was bound to be out in a few hours. Bound to be. All he had to do was wait.

With those comforting thoughts, he lay on the bed, staring into the darkness, until he drifted off into an uneasy sleep, jerking awake from time to time with his thin frame shivering in the cold. He had lost all sense of time, asleep in the dark, and he had no idea of how long it was before lights flickered on again, out in the corridor, and he heard footsteps approaching. A figure – it was impossible to tell who with the light behind him – stopped at the iron gate. Someone had come for him! He was going to be released! But instead the figure stopped, and pushed a tray under the narrow gap between the grill and the floor.

“Food,” he grunted, and turned away.

Harry swung his feet to the floor and went to investigate. There was a small jug of water, a mug, a plate with some dry looking bread, and a bowl of indeterminate looking gruel. He had had only a few slices of toast for breakfast, and his stomach was clamouring for food. He dipped the bread in the gruel and began to eat, doing his best to ignore the rancid taste of the thin mixture. But all too soon the bowl was empty and wiped clean. He drank some of the cold water, then while he could, used the toilet in the corner.

All right, he wasn't going to be released just yet. Perhaps when the trial was reported in the Prophet the next day. Perhaps the report would give Dumbledore and Mr and Mrs Weasley the chance to rally support for him. To help warm himself, he tried doing some exercises: jumping up and down on the spot, swinging his arms out. Jumping – ten, twenty, thirty times. Then, abruptly, in mid jump, the cell was plunged into darkness once more. He fumbled his way back to the bed, warmed a little by the exercise, and once more curled up.

He began to measure time by meals now. Say – one meal every six hours? That meant he'd been locked up for two days now. He had slept so much that sleep was now impossible. Instead, he lay on the bed under the thin blanket, staring into the darkness, shivering, as his mind churned over and over. Would they snap his wand? Where was his wand, anyway? He searched through his pockets for it, but he couldn't find it. He must have dropped it, or it had been taken from him as he was being carried away. Being without a wand somehow made things worse. With a wand, he could have cast a Lumos spell, so at least he would have had some light.

Would they send him back to live in Privet Drive? Exile him from the wizarding world forever for the one charm he had cast that evening? The darker recesses of his mind whispered something else: Azkaban. Another part of him thought: surely not - not for something as trivial as this. Yet he remembered Fudge's face and shivered – and not from the cold. Would he ever see Ron or Hermione again? See Hogwarts? Fly his Firebolt?

Worst of all was the darkness. He lay and stared into ... nothingness. He lay and shivered, not knowing what time it was, what day it was, or how long he'd been here. His mind began to drift off into incoherent fantasies – or were they dreams? Nightmares? He had no way of telling.

And as he lay there under the thin blanket, half awake, half asleep, the lights flickered on once again, and once again he put his feet to the floor, expecting the usual tray of food. But this time there were two figures outside.

“He'll give us no fight now,” observed one. The gate swung open. “On your feet, lad. This way.”

He shuffled out of the cell and was guided down the corridor as it twisted and turned. A door opened into a brightly lit room, and he stood swaying at the entrance, blinded by the sudden light. He felt a push from behind.

“Go on. Inside.”

He put his hand over his eyes to give them chance to accommodate to the brightness. After a minute or so, he felt his hand snatched down, and he blinked uncertainly, still finding it difficult to see after those long hours in the dark. Percy Weasley was standing in front of him, an impatient expression on his face. Percy! He was to be released after all! A great feeling of happiness flooded through his body at the thought of being free once more.

But Percy was ignoring him; instead, he was holding up a scroll, and he began reading from it, his tone flat and official sounding.

“The prisoner is to be removed from the holding cells and taken to Azkaban for an indefinite period. By order of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge.”

Harry gaped. Azkaban? “Percy! It's me – Harry. Remember?”

Percy's face was studiously expressionless. He rolled up the scroll and stared past Harry at the guards.

“Take the prisoner away.”

“Percy! What's this all about? You can't do this!”

“Take him away,” Percy repeated, his voice toneless, still not looking at Harry.

Rough arms seized him, and he was marched out of the room.

“Come on, lad. The less fuss from you, the easier it'll be for you.”

He was being taken along to a blind alcove in the corridor, and he stumbled as he was pushed along. They halted, facing the wall, then he felt a whirling swirling sensation as the hands gripped his elbows even more firmly, and he was transported from the alcove to – to where?

To a stone jetty. He could hear the sound of waves. He tried to look out to sea, but the sun was low on the hroizon, and the light blinded his still sensitive eyes. He swayed as the breeze blew fresh air over his face.

“This way.”

He was being pushed towards what seemed like a small fishing boat tied up against the edge of the jetty. Stone steps led down one side, and he stumbled down them, his two guards close behind.

“Get on.”

“Where are you taking me?”

There was a laugh, but there was little amusement in the voice.

“Where do you think? Do you get on, or do we throw you on?”

Reluctantly, Harry climbed over the side of the boat and stepped down onto the deck of the boat.

“He's all yours, Amos,” he heard.

He turned and saw the two men standing on the stone steps, staring down at him, as an old wizard appeared from the deckhouse.

“Give me a hand with the ropes,” and the two men untied the mooring lines holding the boat to the jetty. Without a glance to Harry, the old wizard pulled the ropes on board and coiled them down, then disappeared back into the deckhouse. The boat began to move.

Harry saw his escorts climbing back up the stone steps of the jetty. The gap between the boat and the shore widened, and he felt the deck under his feet begin to pitch in the waves from the sea. Slowly it began to sink in - he really was on his way to Azkaban.

Azkaban. He remembered what it had done to Sirius. 'An indefinite period,' Percy had said. What did that mean? He had been hoping that despite everything, Dumbledore or the Weasleys or the Order or someone would come to his rescue – but he had to face it: they weren't here yet. He remembered the effect Dementors had had on him only a year before – how was he going to survive with them around him twenty four hours a day?

He sat down on the swaying deck, and forced himself to think hard, squashing down his fears as best he could. Dementors fed on emotions, on people's happiness. So. The only way he could survive then was to shut his mind as best he could. Think of nothing. Train himself to blank his mind as best he could. Otherwise, those monsters would be crowding his cell, pulling every happy thought from his mind, leaving him with nothing except despair.

He realised that he should have learned meditation rather than Potions or Transfiguration – what use would they be to him now, without a wand? He had to have something to focus on, to help him clear his mind. He shivered at the thought of what was waiting for him. Would he be able to do it? Clear his mind so completely that the Dementors would lose interest? Somehow he doubted it, yet he knew he had to, or else he'd be mad within a week.

The old man came out on deck, looked around at the horizon, then down at Harry.

“You've two hours left,” he said. “Then we'll be there.”

He turned and went back inside.

Two hours. Two hours left before he was handed over. He knew he should be enjoying the fresh air and the sunshine while he could, yet a cold, clammy hand was grasping his insides. Two hours left. Only two hours.

He knew he should be preparing himself for his ordeal, but, somehow, couldn't. How could he, whilst sitting in the bright sunlight like this? How much sunshine was he ever going to see again? 'An indefinite period.' Did Fudge intend to keep him there until his mind had gone, until he stumbled out, insane and incoherent? Just how long would that take? Suddenly the sunshine was not that warm any more.

It was astonishing how two hours could drag, yet be past in what seemed to be a moment in time. For, on the horizon, a shape had appeared. A black finger pointing into the clear and innocent sky. A finger which solidified into a rock emerging from the sea, a rock curiously square, with the finger now clarifying into a tower. A rock which wasn't a rock, but a fortress. A fortress for the condemned. Condemned by the courts, and condemned to fester in their own lunacy until their bodies as well as their minds gave way.

The boat grounded gently onto a sloping shingle bank, and already Harry could feel the coldness, the deadening, seeping from the rocks themselves.

“Out, boy,” said the old man gruffly.

Harry stared at him, but the old man regarded him impassively. No doubt he had brought other many other prisoners here in the past, prisoners who had sobbed and begged with him, pleaded to be taken back to the shore. Well, Harry wasn't going to do that. He stepped over the side of the boat, and his feet slid on the loose shingle. He almost fell, and put out a hand. It closed on a pebble, and on an impulse he kept it in his hand as he came upright, then slipped it into a pocket.

He heard a grating sound as the boat slid off the bank. He turned and looked as it backed away, turned, and began to pick up speed. The old man had disappeared back into his deckhouse, and his last contact with the world outside began to disappear.

There was another crunching sound now; that of feet making their way across the shingle. “Here!” he heard someone bark. Harry looked up: a figure silhouetted against the sky was beckoning him. He began to climb up the bank, slipping and sliding on the rounded stones. He arrived at the top, panting slightly. “Follow me,” the man instructed him curtly. He was led through a gateway into a courtyard: the Dementors were closer now – he could feel them, although he had yet to see one. Through a door and down a corridor lined with cells similar to the one he'd been kept in at the Ministry. Huddled figures could be seen in some, others were empty. The eerie quietness was broken from time to time by sobs or muffled screams. One of the cell doors was open, and the man gestured Harry towards it. As he stepped inside, the gate closed with the clang of finality.

Harry stared at what was to be his home for 'an indefinite period'. Home? That was a laugh. Even the Dursleys would be better than this. Suddenly Privet Drive seemed a very attractive place, compared with these rough hewn stone walls. What was a cupboard under the stairs, compared with this?

At least the cell had a window. Harry went over to it, and looked through the narrow slit. An expanse of sea met his gaze. Then he realised the window had no glass. Fine enough on a summer's day like this, but what would it be like in winter? With a gale blowing over the North Sea? With snow blowing in? But as he stood gazing out, his mind began to prickle. A chill started to spread through him – a chill not caused by the dampness of the air in the cell, but a chill of the mind. He sensed a presence outside. The noise from the other cells was becoming louder now. And the terror in his own mind was growing fiercer and fiercer – outside the cell door stood tall, dark figures. He felt the bitter cold of their presence, he heard inchoate voices in his head, and as Harry's mind spiralled down into fear and despair, he collapsed onto the bed, into the darkness of oblivion.

He had no idea of the time when eventually he came to. He was aware he was conscious, and that the figures outside had moved on, but that was all. He hadn't the strength even to stand. Slowly, carefully, he moved one limb at a time, thankful he still had some small control over his body. He opened his eyes: the light in the cell had dimmed. It must be evening then. Or perhaps the next morning. He had no idea.

He could see a tray by the door, but the last thing he wanted was to eat. He was, though, he suddenly discovered, parched with thirst, and he slowly dragged his legs off the bed. He found he couldn't stand. Instead he was reduced to crawling across the floor on all fours until he reached the jug of water. He filled the mug, then drained it; filled it again, and once again drained it. He gasped, his thirst temporarily slaked.

The Dementors had gone, moved on – for the moment. But for how long? How much of this could he take? He crawled back to his bed and slumped down, his limbs shaking. As he lay there, sensation slowly returning, he slowly become aware of something digging into his leg. There was a lump of some sort in one of the pockets of his trousers. He fumbled a hand into the pocket, and pulled out that pebble he'd picked up so casually from the beach. He looked at its smooth rounded shape, and as he stared at it, an idea began to form in his mind.

He took a deep breath. Now was the time to start practising the art of shutting off his mind. If he didn't begin now, whilst he still had some vestige of sanity, it would be too late. He would spiral into madness soon enough unless he could find some distraction.

Holding the stone up close to his face, he focussed on the small oval shaped piece of shingle, blanking out the rest of his mind as best he could. He concentrated on every little pore in the wave rubbed stone, fixing the texture in his mind. The stone was a light orange colour, shot through with a white streak. It had been smoothed by the countless waves that had rolled it up and down the beach, yet there were still tiny pits in the surface. He narrowed his mind so as to take in the smallest detail of that stone clutched so tightly in his fingers. Gradually his mind began numb as he fell into the small hard world of the pebble.

He knew not how long he had been staring at the stone. He knew only that his fingers were stiff, his body sore, and that his bladder was bursting. Slowly, stiffly, he swung swaying to his feet, and as he did so, some of the feeling of cold and dread returned. At least the cell in the Ministry had had a proper toilet; here, there was just a hole in the floor. He relieved himself, then made his way back to his bed, pulling the blanket over him in the oncoming darkness.

How did the Dementors patrol? Did they glide up and down the corridors until they found a juicy specimen, spilling out emotions for them to swallow up? Or did they carry out a regular patrol, corridor after corridor, cell after cell? The only way to find out was the hard way. Better to blank the mind. Damp down emotion. Would he be doing this for years to come? For 'an indefinite period'? Harry rolled over and tried to calm his mind to sleep. And as consciousness faded, he drifted into a dream – but a dream more realistic than one he'd ever dreamed before. He could smell the musty dusty air as he walked down a stone lined corridor, lit only by flickering lamps in brackets. He could feel the grit crunching under his trainers. He halted by a door, which to his frustration he knew was locked. How could he open this door? Because he knew more than anything he wanted to open it, to go inside and find – find whatever was in there. Something he knew he craved desperately.

Then with a jolt he was awake, as an echoing scream came down to his cell. He shivered, wondering what nightmares the Dementors had caused. But he was aware of something else: his mind was now clearer than it had been since he'd set foot on this forsaken little island. Somehow that dream – had it been a dream? – had cleared the chill that had always lurked at the back of his mind ever since he'd arrived. He felt that chill slowly creeping back at the edges of his consciousness, and instead concentrated his mind on whatever that vision had been. For somehow it hadn't been a dream. He still remembered every little vivid detail. Dreams faded when you woke up – this hadn't. He relived that walk down the corridor, feeling the chill recede a little, and moved slowly back into sleep once more.

And as one day merged seamlessly into another, he did his best to block himself from the world around him. His past life was to be forgotten, for one thought could lead to another, and before he knew it, he would be recalling some wistful memory, some memory that would bring hungry parasites to the door of his cell. Instead, he spent hours staring at his pebble, letting it devour his consciousness, or else reliving his nightly visions time and again. For each time he fell asleep, that vision would come back to him; that corridor, that feeling of intense frustration at the locked door. In his visions, he would stand in front of the door, running a hand over its rough hewn texture, feeling for a handle that wasn't there, trying desperately to find some way of opening it. And he knew that now he no longer attracted the Dementors as he had before; that now there was nothing in his mind any more worth sucking out.

But there were times when his strategy for survival did not always work as planned, when his concentration lapsed. One morning, whilst focussing on his pebble to the exclusion of all else, a ray of sunlight broke into his cell. Distracted, he looked up. The sunlight suddenly brought memories flooding into his mind, memories he'd successfully suppressed for what seemed to be weeks. Sunlight and fresh air, the memory of a Quidditch pitch on a bright day, flying on his Firebolt, the wind blowing through his hair, Ron and Hermione ... until he was aware of the rattling breaths from outside, the terror that broke into his mind as Dementors flocked to this outburst of happy feelings. He wasn't sure whether the screams were in his mind or not as he plunged headlong once more into a terror stricken unconsciousness.

It must have been many hours before he woke again, because the grey light of dawn was just beginning to seep into his cell. From the rawness of his throat he knew now that most of the screaming had come from him. He was now weaker than he had ever been. It took what seemed to be an eternity to crawl to that tray with its jug of water, and soothe his raw, parched throat. A tiny fragment of dry bread lay next to the mug, and he forced it down into his throat. He had no idea what he weighed now, but his clothes, filthy as they had become, lay on him ever more loosely.

He rolled over onto his back on the hard stone floor and gazed up sightlessly. For once, his attempt to lose himself, to damp down his mind, had failed. What else was there left that could he try? He became aware of something else too: days and days of lying or sitting on his bed without moving meant that his muscles had become weaker and weaker – they were gradually atrophying. Being physically weak meant he was mentally weak too. He'd have to eat whether he liked it or not. If he were to waste away and starve, then Fudge would have won – and he wasn't going to give him that pleasure.

His joints creaked as he levered himself slowly and shakily to his feet. He remembered jumping up and down on the spot in the holding cell back in the Ministry, in an attempt to keep warm. There was no chance of his being able to jump up and down now. His legs simply were not capable of it. He lay down on his bed and tried lifting up one leg then the other. His muscles cried out in protest. But then he realised something else. The exercise was exquisitely painful – and the Dementors were not interested in pain. They fed on pleasure. The more he exercised, the more painful it was, the less interest the Dementors would pay to him.

Even the slightest exertion would leave him panting for breath. Raising an arm above his shoulder was almost more than he was capable of. Something else too: perhaps the more tired he was after exercise, the better he would slip into the blissful unconsciousness of sleep.

For the rest of the day, he would try exercising his muscles, incapable of sustaining it for more than a few minutes, but determined to make the effort. And he noticed something rather curious. When his tray was next replenished, there were two slices of bread where before there had been one. He forced them both down his throat. He was glad the food was so unappetising: he thought of savouring the feeling of eating, then realised that even the slightest feeling of pleasure would bring the guards back again, to lap up those sensations of delight.

He concentrated too on the faces of Fudge and of Percy. Fudge, who was prepared to sacrifice a fifteen year old boy to hold onto power, onto his position as Minister. Percy, the bureaucrat who followed orders to the last full stop, regardless of the human suffering involved. He poured all his hate into the two figures. If – no, when! - he was released, he would make sure he took his revenge. Whatever it took, he would make sure that those two suffered as he was suffering now.

As the darkness settled once more on the island, Harry collapsed under his blanket, utterly worn out, to fall into sleep once more. And to dream. He dreamt he was walking down that corridor yet again, but he knew somehow that this time – this time, the door would open for him. He ran his fingers over the rough wooden surface from top to bottom, from side to side, and then – and then – the door creaked open. He'd done it! He was in what ever it was that lay behind the door. And he stood, amazed at the sight that greeted him. There was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind to push on, to explore further, but instead he savoured the sight of a room that was not damp bare rock, that was not lit by feeble light from a narrow barred window. And he knew also that he was safe to exult whilst in his vision, that somehow he was protected from the Dementors whilst he was here. He never wanted to leave. He ignored the insistent voice urging him on, but instead stepped slowly into the room with its starlike lights in the ceiling, this round room with many doors. He sank to the floor, grateful to be away from the horrors of Azkaban, grateful for his respite. For he knew that was what it was – just a respite, but until he was woken again, he was free from the continual sapping coldness.

But awake eventually he did. His mind was once again clear, his thoughts no longer clouded. He ran through his vision time and again until the grey light of dawn seeped once more into his cell. Then he tried to move from his bed, as seemingly every muscle in his body protested. The previous day's exercise had taken its toll. But if more exercise meant more pain, it would be worth it. He welcomed pain now, as it kept his tormentors at bay. In the new clarity of his mind, he realised that his clothes were ragged and filthy, that he too was filthy, that he smelled appallingly. There might have been water in the jug, but only just enough to keep his thirst at bay. Certainly not enough to wash in.

And this time there was a small bowl of gruel with his bread. Curious. Perhaps – perhaps the prison somehow regulated the amount of food to the amount eaten. Food left meant less next time. Another way to solve the problem of prison population - let the inmates starve themselves to death of their own accord. He was going to survive – he was determined to survive. He might have abandoned by Dumbledore – who he now hated with a passion as fierce as that he felt for Fudge and for Percy – but he was going to survive.

Each day he planned his exercise – his muscles were becoming stronger, so he had to work that much harder. But physical exertion was one other way of keeping his mind blank. And when his body began to feel pain, he'd lie down until the last lingering twinges had gone, then begin again, trying to stretch out time as far as possible. He ate all the food that appeared on his tray, and gradually more and more was provided. In between the exercise he focussed on his stone. Failing that, there were the faces of Fudge, Percy, Dumbledore and others to fall back on. Even so, his resolution wavered from time to time, as he realised the days were beginning to shorten and the winds were becoming cooler. Could he survive a winter here?

And at night there were his visions to fall back on. He would ignore the pressure to explore, but instead wander round one room at a time, taking in its mysteries, pouring over the artefacts, wondering what they could be. And each morning he could wake up with his mind clear once more. He could spend more time during the day reliving his visions, recalling where he had been, the sights he had seen. No longer did Dementors crowd his doorway – there was no happiness or affection left in him now, only raging fury and burning hate.

Until the night came when he entered a room filled with shelf upon shelf of small glass globes. Yes, hissed a voice in the back of his mind. This is what we are looking for. And he realised whose the voice was, whose mind had been pushing him along all these weeks. And now he knew too why fears of the Dementors had left him during these visions – they were being channelled elsewhere. And he knew now the toll this had taken of a mind that had little or nothing in the way of happiness in it to begin with. It had been Voldemort pushing him along. There was something in here that Voldemort was yearning to get his hands on. Something he'd been working on without success for months. And so he had resorted to channelling Harry, even at the expense of having his own mind sapped by Dementors.

When eventually Harry woke again, he realised he did not care that it was Voldemort that had been sending him the visions. They had helped keep him sane – if sane he still was. It had not been Dumbledore sustaining him here, nor any of his friends, but his worst enemy.

But how long would he stay sane? Summer was giving way to autumn, and that meant he'd been here for at least a couple of months now. How had Sirius survived all those years? 'An indefinite period'. But confined as he was within his stone walls, the outside world had almost ceased to exist. The past? What was the past? What had been his past? A childhood with the Dursleys, a brief few years at Hogwarts. And now this.

But 'this' was broken one morning by the shuffling of footsteps along the corridor. He'd heard that before, on the times when new prisoners were brought in. Those were bad times, since fresh meat and fresh minds brought the Dementors along, and although they might not have been concentrating on him, so many so close brought him almost to screaming pitch again.

This time, though, was different. The warder stopped outside his cell and peered in. Harry looked up, then slipped the stone he had gazing at into his pocket. The warder tapped the cell door with his wand, and it creaked open.

“Here, boy.”

Harry stood up. What did this mean? He refused to entertain for a moment the thought of what it could, what it might mean. That would be too happy a thought. Yet the Dementors were not around; they had been cleared away as usual to allow the warder to come down the corridor.

“Come on,” the voice said impatiently.

Harry moved slowly towards the door. He did not want to give the impression that he still retained any strength, any energy.

“This way.”

The warder pointed him down the corridor. Slowly he moved down, into that courtyard he'd seen on arrival. He followed the warder out, and around the fortress, to a wing built on one side. This must be where the warders lived. Perhaps it was charmed against the effects of the Dementors.

“In there.”

Harry realised the warder was used to dealing with those whose hold on reality had become tenuous, who could only respond to the simplest of instructions.

“You're being released. On certain conditions.”

Harry's heart began pounding. He trued to speak; his voice croaked after months of disuse. “Conditions?”

The man grunted. He picked up a parchment from the table and began to read slowly, taking his time. “Conditions of the prisoner's release. One. The prisoner must never again possess a wand. Two. The prisoner must never again attempt to perform magic. Three. The prisoner must never again attempt to contact any member of the magical community. Violation of any of these conditions will result in a minimum five year sentence in Azkaban.”

The words sank slowly into Harry's mind. Oh, very clever. Throw him in here for three months, then exile him under threat of return, knowing full well he'd never ever want to come back here again.

The warder looked up at him. “Do you understand these conditions?” Harry nodded. “Do you agree to abide by them?” Harry nodded again. “Then sign here,” proffering a quill.

Harry scrawled something illegible. The man grunted again. “Right then. Follow me.”

Harry was taken down to the shingle beach again, small waves lapping at its shores. A little way offshore he saw the boat again, making its way to the island. It slowed as it drew nearer, then gently crunched onto the shingle.

“Get aboard.”