Carnifex (A Harry Potter Fanfic)

Marmoris

Cold. He knew he was cold. That was the only thing anyone ever felt here. It itched, like fresh frostbite on your cheeks, like the guilt that crawled up ones spine. Nothing ever brought warmth to mind or mouth, those who dwelled here knew this far too well, and their guards made sure that this was true. The unfortunate souls who'd ended up in this pyre of freeze, would go mad within the short moments of arriving. Everyones fate was the same. Driven mad by their own commitments. Berated by the bile of their sins. Well... Almost everyone.

The cynical slosh of the pounding waves outside almost drowned out the groans of desperation inside, almost quieted the maniacal laughter that echoed down the halls every now and then. The air stung his lungs as he took in a deep breath, craning his neck backwards, leaning against the craggy wall, the obsidian like stone icy to the touch. Silver strands of moonlight disappeared under the building clouds outside, sending the prison into utter darkness. Not even candle light could pierce the thickness of the dingy dungeon.

He tried not to listen too closely. Not to listen as gangly, ghostly figures sucked the atmosphere of its warmth, drifting demented down the hall between cells, their rattling, hollow breath haunting the endless floors. Their shadows sent more than shivers down the backs of onlookers, it drained them of all hope, sending souls spiralling helplessly into despair. Goose bumps rose and fell as the ghouls glided by, seemingly leaving him to his peace for now. Or so he thought. As they passed the cell, which dementor after dementor, usually, faithfully bid him hello, was when he realized why they'd skipped him for the first time in nearly half a decade. The faint, unfamiliar sound of heeled boots caught his attentive ears, accompanied by shaky murmurs. He wondered how long it had been since he'd heard that sound. The sound of sane chatter. The sound of voices not driven beyond the brink of madness. The door of his cell was pushed open, metallic hinges moaning under the foreign motion. The greying green of his eyes scathed upwards towards the men that now shuffled into his cell, dragging chairs in behind them with an indignant scrape.

"Slainsti." One of the men spouted.

It took him a moment to regain his attention, coming out of the daze that was Azkaban, as he came to terms with what was happening. Looking to the face that had addressed him, a fat, balding man with a grand moustache sprouting on his upper lip, returned his gaze with an apprehensive, stoic tone. His eyes then wandered to the taller stature, almost recognizing the glittering beneath his half moon glasses.

He dare not respond as they stood before him, watching, waiting for their voices to meet him once more.

Plopping himself into a chair that seemed far too small for him, the balding man spoke again, boding him as tiresome as his words spilled. "You will be answering my question."

"I will?" He hadn't meant to speak.

From the floor, watching the strange figures that towered over his coddled corpse, warily, he cocked a brow of interest as the piggy person pulled his chair closer, sticking out a finger.

"Don't be coy with me boy."

Boy? He was much older than a boy, he couldn't be much younger than the balding boy in front of him. Though, he let this mild comment slide, taking it as an unfortunate compliment.

"You were his second hand. You know him better than anyone. You will tell us his weaknesses, or suffer worse than death." The man blundered.

He was obviously desperate. To drawl into such a place, to speak to such a man. A man he couldn't confirm actually knew anything useful. "His? Who?" He played dumb, hoping that if he'd played the mad card, maybe they would leave him to his fate, worse than death.

It seemed he'd struck a nerve in the fat man, for a vein seemed to pop on his bulging forehead, his balding patches glistening even more under the gloom of Azkaban candles.  "You damned git! You know exactly who I mean! You-know-who!"

"Apparently not sir, though, you know who I'm sure, if you would tell me, I might be of use." He droned back innocently.

The chair clattered suddenly, fist raised into the air, the man exasperated "YOU-KNOW-WHO!"

Almost amused by his frustration, he nearly broke a grin, the first grin he'd felt pull at his lips since entering this place. "No Sir, you know who." Was his quiet response.

"Why you-"

"Minister." The accompanying party finally spoke.

The man stopped mid swing, looking back towards his company. As he drew closer, the silver of his long beard glinting against the cold, his long, blueish robes dragging behind him as he drew up a chair, pushing it towards him. He glanced between the blue gaze of the familiar man and the seat he'd offered.

"Please Mr Slainsti, take a seat." His voice was gentle and serene. Warm. The minister however, gave him a sharp glare, his lips gnarling back in a tempted snarl, but quickly retreated as he stood back.

He sat there for a long, painful moment, eyes not leaving the kindness in the mans face. A man he recognized. A man he knew all too well. He was honestly surprised to see him in such a place, see him standing in front of him without a hint of disgust or reproach on his face. Carefully, slowly, he worked to stand, his legs shaking beneath him as he barely made a shuffle to the chair, his eyes never leaving the man.

Mr Slainsti, reluctantly, seemed to find his words as he found the soft cushion beneath him, his bones feeling rigid and empty against the despair of the prison. "Why are you here?" He asked, even though he'd been given the answer previously.

He decided, as he sat, that if he were to be talking to anyone, it would be his old transfiguration teacher. He'd always admired him, even when the one closest to him disapproved of this fondness.

"I'm here to talk with you. Have a conversation." Came his professors vague reply. His gaze didn't leave him as he pulled up the Ministers chair and fastened it beneath him.

"About him." His words came in a shaky tone, his throat dry beneath the layer of hush that had befallen him for these past few years.

"Yes." Albus nodded. "About him. Voldemort."

The name seemed to set the Minister on edge, his leg bouncing at the note of it.

"Ah. Voldemort."