Chapter 3
Azkaban was... cold. Cold and dark, haunted by the screams- from memories, from the prisoners.
Sirius had survived it because he was an animagus, and knew he was innocent. Harry had no such reassurance. The trial constantly played on his mind, his answers under the truth serum stuck in his head. Was it possible he was in the wrong? He had thought he was doing the right thing, and it had seemed like that at the time, but - so many people had been hurt. Died, because of him. Was everything actually his fault?
Before, he would have eventually convinced himself that he had been right, or simply found silence in a bottle. Now, the dementors made any such thing impossible.
He only ever had one visitor. Luna.
As usual, she talked in riddles, seemingly unaffected by the dementors. But they never even came near his cell when she was there, and afterwards there was a sort of peace he never got any other time.
She hadn't been for a few weeks, though. The last time she had been even more cryptic than usual.
"I'll be gone for a while, but don't worry, I'll see you on the other side. Oh, and one thing- keep your wand in your hand when you do it."
What she meant by 'it' was anyone's guess. But the memory stuck in Harry's head, a welcome change. He didn't have his wand any more, it had been snapped after the verdict, the core burnt. But a guard had thrown him a piece of the wood, afterwards. Whether in misguided pity or in mockery, the shard of holly had been a lifeline.
Now, he welcomed the dementors. The cold they brought was grounding, the screams of Hermione and his mother blending into one, the only thing he had left of them. All that was left was pain, and it was reassuring now.
What does it feel like to be human? He's long since forgotten.
This was dull. Why won't they come back? He misses the screams. The silence now is too quiet.
Expecto Patronum but backwards. Where are they? Oh, but he misses the noise.
Is that blood? The fragment of wood is digging into his hand, red staining it, marking the floor.
Oh, that's pretty. Who's the person next to him? In that cell? Blond hair, he's familiar. Familiar and family, through Siri. Oh, come a little closer, he doesn't bite. Yet.
The blond's blood makes a much nicer pattern on the floor, tasting like iron, and he screams as well. That's better, but it stops too soon.
Weren't you meant to relive your life when you died? His life has held a lot of screaming...
His top makes a good rope, and its easy enough to hang up.
What did she say? Well, that's not a problem, he never puts it down now, his blood is too nice for that.
The air starts to fade, his neck bruising, colours dancing. And oh! There are the screams. Oh, that's nice...
The last thing he sees is the shard of wood mixing with his palm, black lines spiralling up his arm.
Harry Potter lands in Hell and smiles.