Dead. And at that angle? Alive.

Whispers in the dark

To the untrained eyes of the terrified convict, or equally terrified passing visitor, Azkaban as a bleak and unforgiving monolith of death and terror. This, while being quite true, remains woefully sparse. A philanthropist dark wizard would be delighted to discuss the rich and specialised fauna and flora thriving on the ten foot worth of bare, hard rock sprawling from the foot of the tower to the sea that technically speaking, could be referred as 'Azkaban island'. It consists mostly in dark mosses, dark fungus, and dark birds (the dark side refutes the existence of dark molluscs).

A vast colony of Augurey had taken to nest in the crooks of the tall walls, crowing in their mournful way at all hours. Most interesting, among all the washed-up refuses of the magical world that ended up thriving on Azkaban island of all places, was a discreet specie of small, black snakes. This is where you fetch your closest dark wizard philanthropist, for these little beauties are not your everyday magical snake. These inconspicuous inhabitants are, in fact, mardröm, and through extinct by the magical world at large for now a few hundreds of years. The sneaky little devils had found in Azkaban a heaven of sort, feed on the occasional auspicious egg, and the nightmares of men. The little colony lived peaceful and undisturbed under the jagged, sea-weathered black stones as the only philanthropist black wizard that walked the area were never given a real chance at exploring before being locked up for their sins -aka curiosity-.

Now, one such madröm was currently making his skilful way toward a poorly positioned Augurey nest, where promise of dinner lay in wait. The birds usually nested high enough to discourage the adventurous little snakes, but this one was close to the base of the tower, in the crook of a light pit. Light pits were handy to madröm, for they led directly inside the towers to the humans, were they could discreetly slither to nibble on their tormented sleep. As he slithered closer to the nest, and therefore the opening, a sibilant whimper caught his attention.

He tasted the air curiously, and his dinner briefly forgotten, followed the strange whisper.

***

Harry was not spiralling into madness. Spiralling refers to a somewhat fast, but gradual slip of control.

Nothing had been remotely gradual about Harry's current state.

The cold, dead eyes he had woken up to had looked like Cedric's, unseeing and unforgiving. Their stillness was seared onto his retina, and wherever he looked there was the vacant and accusatory cadaver. In shock, he had been in shock. Nothing made sense. He'd been restrained, manhandled. People had come and gone.

Everything had been muted and toned down, like his head was underwater.

He'd been thrown in a pitch-black cell.

A flicker of survival instinct had registered cold closing up on him as the tell-tale glow of a patronus walked away from him, leaving him to the mercy of Azkaban. A shot of adrenaline had blazed his brain to wakefulness.

There were cackles and jeers, the cell he had been thrown in was matted with salted grim.

The sea sounded much, much closer.

Long, desiccated arms reached through the cell's bars, grabbing for his neck, for his cloths in a hungry, desperate manner. He flung himself backwards, crawling out of reach, until his back collided with the tower's wall.

But the ever-hungry maws of the pit did not need to touch him to feed on him.

And Harry had been offered to them.

***

With every new cry and sob that was wrenched from his withering soul, he could feel the raw texture of his throat, and taste blood on his tong.