Imprisoned
The cold has settled into Harry’s bone. It seems to crack and twist them within his body. He aches with the it and from the blows dealt him by the other inmates. They cackle and howl at him and take every opportunity to hurt him. The solitude of his cell is his only reprieve, even if it is meant to be a form of punishment. The solitude wears on him, but it is better than the company he would otherwise have. The food, when it comes, is limited and not very filling. Which says nothing of the Dementors. They love him. He is a wellspring of misery and pain to feed on. He hates them. He had little enough joy and happiness as it was. He didn’t need it to be stolen away.
Time dragged on. He tried to keep track of the days, but it was hard. Trying to scratch marks onto the wall for each day was useless. A constant storm around the prison smeared day and night into a monotonous slide that couldn’t be tracked. There was no set schedule for anything, not food, not time in the small, open spaces of the prison. So, time goes on, and the only way to track it is his increasingly poor health. Skin adheres to bone, and his joints ache. His dreams are strange, and sometimes, it’s hard to separate reality from dream. He sleeps when he can, to try and escape reality, but he’s still tired all of the time. Worse, his dreams feature Azkaban more and more, meaning there is no escape.
He hears the drum of feet down the hall, the click of hard boot heels on stone. He wants to hide, to avoid the paint that’s coming, but in his tiny little cell, there is nowhere to go, and he has no energy to even rise to his feet. So, he stays curled up in one corner, the straw of the thin, moldering mattress poking his skin. The heavy cell door swings open with the scream of metal hinges, and Harry flinches at the light they bring with them, so bright that it seems to burn him. He curls in on himself more tightly. Aurors assigned to the prison, but they’re not much better than the prisoners really, angry and more than willing to inflict pain on others. They talk amongst themselves, their words beyond the comprehension of his food and sleep deprived mind. He feels hands grab onto him, lift him, and he welcomes the darkness that swallows him. He doesn’t want to know what comes next.
He wakes to bright lights and flinches back, covering his eyes. Gradually, he becomes aware of the noise, the soft movements of…somewhere, like a library where everyone is trying to be quiet, but he can’t be in a library. His eyes adjust slowly, and he looks around, finding himself in a small cubicle hemmed in by curtains. He struggles to push himself upright, his arms shaking with the strain. How long has it been? What is he doing here, in what seems to be a hospital? He startles at a brief but sharp argument outside the curtains that he can’t quite determine the cause of. Then, the stark white curtains are pushed aside, and he gapes openly at his visitor.
“Neville?!”
Neville grins and darts across the space, pulling Harry into a tight hug. “It’s so good to see you!” Harry cringes, body still aching from its treatment. Neville pulls back and grimaces. “Sorry, Harry. It’s just…it’s been a while.” It must have. Neville had gotten taller and grown into his height well. He seems more confident, comfortable in his body now.
“How long?” Harry rasps, words sticking in his throat in ways they never had before.
Neville frowns and shakes his head. “Two years. I fought them the whole time, but no one really listens to a fourteen your old very well. Lately though, Dumbledore seems near panic, and he’s been fighting to have you freed. There’s been a lot of shakeup in the Ministry. Dumbledore seems to think it’s because of Voldemort, pushing his own people in, though it certainly doesn’t seem like it. They haven’t done anything yet. Whatever it is, it seemed to have helped him in getting you out, for some reason.”
Harry sits in stunned silence for a long moment, staring, then he reaches out, blinking back tears. “Thank you, Neville…for trying.”
Neville smiles. “Just doing what’s right. Dumbledore will probably be here before long.” He glances back toward the curtain he came through, then back to Harry. “Between you and me, I think somethings going on. There’s something in the Ministry they want you for. Please, be careful.” It seemed Neville wasn’t so trusting of Dumbledore anymore.
“Thanks, Nev. Thanks for being there, and please, be careful. After everything that’s happened, I wouldn’t want to lose another friend.”
Neville smiles and sets a light hand on his shoulder. “If you need anything, send me an owl, I’ll be here in an instant.” He turns and leaves, glancing back to flash one last smile, and Harry is left to his thoughts.
Something was going on. Dumbledore finally wanted him, for something in the Ministry no less. Harry closes his eyes, pushing back the fear, the sorrow. Two years in Azkaban, and he was still a puppet. He wanted to scream, to rage, but he didn’t. He waited. The nurse came to check on him, fed him a number of horrible tasting potions. Then came a clamour from down the hall, an argument, and familiar voices. Dumbledore and…Sirius. The curtain flew back and Sirius charged in.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell…Harry!” The relief in his voice is palpable, and he moves to the edge of the bed, hands shaking with barely contained emotion. He looked better than Harry had ever seen him, clean and well fed. (Harry couldn’t imagine what he himself looked like if he was anything like Sirius had been when he’d gotten out.) “Hey, pup. It’s been a while.”
Harry gives him a watery smile and manages to lean forward and hug Sirius. (He was doing better after the latest round of potions.) “Sirius! What are you doing here?”
“They cleared me, pup, found the rat that did it and threw him in…” Sirius pauses at that dreaded name. “Never mind. I’m here now. How do you feel?”
Harry shrugs, not letting himself think of the pain he still felt, or the discomfort of his ailing body. (So too, he didn’t let himself think of the pain, the rage directed at the man standing just inside the curtain, who he refused to acknowledge.) “Better than I have recently. I’m glad to see you.”
Sirius grins. “Me too.” Dumbledore, lingering near the back of the space, clears his throat. Sirius sends him a sharp glare but rises to his feet. “I think he wants to talk to you, pup. I’ll find you something to eat and be right back.” He leaves, still glaring at Dumbledore.
“Harry, my boy, it’s good to see you,” he says, giving his best grandfatherly smile.
Harry manages to keep his face neutral, but all he wanted to do was hiss and scream at him. “Hello, Professor. What do you want from me?”
If Dumbledore notices Harry’s clipped, angry manner, he does not seem to care. “I’m afraid a great deal has happened, my boy.” Harry flinches at the moniker, recalling long stretches of time where he’d simply been ‘boy.’
“Then tell me why I’m here.”
Dumbledore frowns but takes a seat at his bedside. “You recall what I said about part of Voldemort’s soul clinging to you?” Harry wants to bite back that he would never forget that betrayal, but he simply swallows thickly and nods. “Well, putting a part of one’s soul in an object makes it something called a Horcrux and it enables that person to…evade death.” Harry refuses to let himself react, though his thoughts spiral with the possibility that he was the reason that Voldemort had been able to return. “Voldemort, you see, had several. You were the last and were, I think, accidental. I have been searching out the others, but…while it seems I have been able to find their locations, I have not been able to find the objects. The signatures of the dark magic are left behind, but it seems the Dark Lord is one step in front of me.”
Harry just stares at him, refusing to follow along and ask the question expected. Dumbledore sighs.
“It seems that now that Voldemort has his Horcruxes, he has one final piece of the puzzle. He wants the Prophecy.”
“Prophecy? I’ve never heard of any Prophecy.”
Dumbledore just nods sagely, as if he hadn’t been keeping a monumental secret. “The Prophecy that said you would be the one to defeat Voldemort, the one that caused him to go after you and your parents. The Prophecy itself is here in the Ministry, the Department of Mysteries. Voldemort is after it, but now that you’re here, we’ll remove it and take it to a safe location. It can only be taken by the recipients of the prophecy, after all.”
Harry stays silent, quivering with pent up emotions. If he’d had the strength, he would have risen to his feet and started hurling things at the old fool. Prophecy! He’d been twisted about on puppet’s strings because of some babbling fool speaking of an unclear future. If it was such a certain thing, he need never have been manipulated!
Fortunately, Sirius returns before Harry can say or do anything. Dumbledore rises and pats Harry’s hand. “Rest and recover. I’m certain you’ll need it.” Harry thinks spitefully that he only needs it because of him and his manipulation.
Sirius glares at Dumbledore and sits beside Harry once more, handing him the food he’d brought. “It isn’t much, but you should take it easy at first. Trust me, I know.” Sirius gives a weak smile, then turns his attention to the chair on the other side of Harry. “Your things are there, a change of clothes and your wand. I took the liberty of finding you a new blade, since the other one you were fond of was lost. From the Potter vault. I think you’ll like it.”
Harry peers at the pile of articles curiously, but he doesn’t dare try and lift anything. His arms felt like they were made of water. “Would you show me?”
“Of course.”
Sirius moves to the other side of the bed and lifts the sword for Harry to see. It is about the same size as the previous one. The scabbard is a pure black leather edged with silver. Sirius draws the blade for him to see. It too is silver and black, beautifully made. In the blade is inscribed Iustitia. A Latin word. Justice.
“Goblin made. It’ll hold up under nearly anything, curses and spells included.” Sirius offers a strained smile, which seems to crack and fall off one side. “I’m afraid you might need it soon.”
Harry is afraid of that too. Something is coming, and he never wanted to hide from his destiny more than he did in that instant.