I'm afraid of sleep.
Because every time I close my eyes.
Every time I let myself go down into that place.
All I can see is their burnt faces.
Accusing me.
Cursing me.
Sometimes I can feel them clinging to me with their small, burnt bodies.
'Why did you let us die?' they say.
'Why did you do this to us?'
'We had our whole lives ahead of us.'
'You destroyed us.'
It's my fault.
I don't sleep anymore.
I don't think I've slept for weeks now. This must be the first time in a while.
Don't ask me how I'm still alive.
Must be an immortal thing.
No - that's not right, is it?
I can still die of natural causes after all.
What's keeping me alive then?
Does it all just boil down to magic?
Magic. What a disgusting word.
If only I'd never accepted Dumbledore’s Hogwarts letter.
If only I chose my family over my friends.
It's my fault they're gone.
It's my fault.
Hey - who's that?
He's much too old to be one of them...
He shouldn't be in my dream... this is a place only where my siblings come to repay me for robbing them of their lives....
I can see his stubble from here - he's obviously not a child like the rest of them.
Oh - I remember now.
He's that Death Eater who did it all.
The one Umbridge hired to set my home ablaze.
What is he doing here? He looks angry.
Oh.
I see.
He's come to repay me too.
Repay me for killing him.
* * *
Azkaban prison had seen the most change it ever had in three centuries.
Merely a few months ago, it had been a desolate, quiet and miserable place that housed no joy or happiness, only despair, fear and total, utter obedience.
It's residents, stripped of their basic rights as human beings, nevermind wizards, had endured the stench of Dementors for what felt like their whole lives. Trapped behind iron bars for so long they'd forgotten what it meant to be free. Sucked dry of their emotions for so long they'd forgotten what it meant to be happy.
Azkaban had never been a pleasant place.
And so when the Dementors left. When they were removed from the great Wizarding prison and replaced with Aurors and guards, it was the first bit of sheer release the prisoners had endured in years.
Like letting out a breath that had been held for far, far too long.
Different men and women responded in various ways, of course.
Some, more noticeably the ones who had been in for less time, recovered from their depressed state of tense despair quite magnificently, and their cells steadily became rowdy, filled with prisoners drunk on the addictive feeling of euphoria once again.
Others, who had been locked away for far too long, been under the Dementors influence for far too long, did not recover so quickly. Yes, they had been pulled away from their thief of emotion, but they were far too damaged. Far too broken by the Dementors lingering odor. As such, they remained submissive, quiet, and obedient.
With the sanction of the Dementors. Certain rules had to be established that had never been considered before.
Prisoners couldn't just stay in their cells all day as they had previously. They had far too much newly recovered pent-up energy and emotion which lead to outbursts in wandless magic, breaking open the bars and sending the prisoners amok.
Therefore a Muggle-based prison system had been implemented in which prisoners where allowed certain amounts of free time, lunch time, work time, etc.
The fact that Azkaban was indeed a mixed prison had never been an issue before, as the fact that the prisoners were far too lost in their own despairs to bother with trivial matters such as lust, coupled with the fact they used to never be let out of their cells, meant that a man and woman sharing a cell meant nothing at all. They may as well be two corpses thrown into deep hole underground.
With these restrictions relieved however, the first few days of Dementor-free Azkaban life had resembled that of some sort of sick human breeding farm. Men and women were seen more often naked than in their striped prison robes, and more often feeding off each others' bodies than consuming actual food.
Years, or in some cases, decades of pent-up lust would do that.
And so, the separation of men and women was inevitable. Closing off the two sides completely. Soon, they hoped to build a new fortress to house the female occupants, separating male and female entirely.
That included the newly appointed male and female guards, who unfortunately, did sometimes get caught up in all the action.
In the centre of all this, only one man was ever allowed to visit the women's quarters of Azkaban. And no one, no guard nor prisoner, dared defy him.
After all, even without a wand, he could immobilise every single one of them.
In the eyes of some of the prisoners, particularly the male ones, this was considered a huge waste of power, as the man who regularly visited the women's side of the prison never did anything remotely sexual. And as he was still a young and impressionable teenager, it was quite an impressive feat in itself.
Even to some of the female prisoners, the man, or rather, the boy's power to enter the women's quarters whenever he so desired was considered a huge waste. The lad wasn't bad looking at all.
But nay, the only reason the boy entered the women's quarters at all was for one reason, and one reason only.
"Hello, mother." said the boy quietly, stepping into the women's hospital wing.
The woman in the clear glass cell ahead shared the same hair colour and face as the boy, the only difference being her completely hollowed cheeks and eye sockets, giving the once beautiful woman the appearance of a corspe.
Now, the one of the few physical features they shared was their dark, deep eye bags.
Much to the confusion of the newly appointed Azkaban staff, as well as the prisoners themselves, the boy would often come to visit his mother's cell in the hospital wing, taking the time to feed her when necessary, bathe her when necessary, or sometimes even just sit outside her cell and talk to her about this and that.
It would always be an entirely one-sided conversation, of course, as the Kissed woman, without a soul, could do nought but slowly blink in response. It was like talking to a person who'd lost every single one of her five senses. As though she couldn't hear, see, smell, feel or Merlin forbid taste his presence.
And yet, it was the only time the boy ever spoke. The only time he ever opened his mouth and let out his croaky, hollow voice.
In fact, when the boy had first been sent to the great fortress, many believed him to be completely mute. It was a huge shock to the matrons in the hospital wing to hear him finally speak, and in the presence of someone he apparently hated with a passion, no less.
Because if he wanted to, of course he could kill her. It would be as simple and as easy as swatting a fly.
Just as he had the the other two Azkaban prisoners.
He'd killed them during his second week of imprisonment. Completely without warning. No one knew how he'd accessed their cells. No one knew why no one had seen him do it. But when it happened, they all knew it was him.
Therefore all known prisoners with the Dark Mark, or any prisoner who had associated themselves with Voldemort in any way, were moved into tighter security for their own safety. This included Lucius Malfoy, a man once sheltered and spoilt by his higher class way of life, and a man who was taking the savage prison lifestyle the hardest of all the Death Eaters. Sometimes the foolish man would forget he was in prison at all and call for one of his house elves whenever he'd been tasked with a job from the guards.
Although all the Death Eaters were now being protected by much tighter security. Everyone knew it'd only be a matter of time before the boy figured out a way to get to them. And continue his slaughter of all Death Eaters.
So the question of why was always on prisoners' minds. Why was Voldemort's ex-loyallest follower free of the 'Death Eater' treatment?
Some believed this to be because the boy was too soft to harm his own mother. And any softy who couldn't bare to harm a family member was seen as some sort of lower being in their dishonourable criminal hierarchy. If he was such a wuss, he couldn't be that much of a monster, as everyone was making out, right?
And so like power-crazed school bullies, they attempted to give the boy a hard time.
This was far more than a mistake.
These overweight, magic-dependant and magic-stripped fools simply could not compare to a trained professional in Muggle combat. Just like any other entitled wizard who thought wizards were superior to Muggles just for being Muggles, they had the biggest wake up call of their lives.
Magic-starved wizards who hadn't so much as gone on a simple run before stood no chance against the skilled and athletic boy.
In no time at all, the boy, not even considered a legal adult in the wizarding world let alone the Muggle one, was at the tippy top of the prison hierarchy.
The king, so to say.
And so, when Minister Rufus Scrimgeour stepped out of his flying horse-drawn carriage, having travelled across miles and miles of great british ocean just to make it to the looming black fortress, he could only expect the unexpected after all the files he'd read regarding Y/N L/N.
* * *
Wilbert couldn't sleep.
It was one o' clock in the damn morning.
Their failure had haunted him ever since the night he and Hagrid had failed to protect Y/N's siblings. He had entrusted the safety of his siblings to them while he went to support his friends. Wilbert had looked Y/N dead in the eyes, and told him he wouldn't have to worry.
He even told him not to think emotionally, and that only Y/N could protect his friends because Wilbert was no good with magical combat, and Hagrid was not allowed to use magic.
What an absolute dickhead he was.
The feeling plagued him. He could have saved them. He could have made sure Y/N's siblings didn't die.
Who would have thought that a single Death Eater would overpower both he and Hagrid?
And the most crushing of all, Wilbert's dreams, aspirations, his hopes of changing the wizarding world for the better were all down the drain.
He turned over in his bed, the monster inside him clawing at his insides. How could he sleep? How could he dare to take another breath in this world, when he was responsible for the deaths of so many?
Sometimes, shockingly enough, he even felt fearful. How could he face Y/N once he was released. How could he speak to him, how could he show his face to him ever again?
* * *
Dear Harry,
If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort you to the Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.
If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to the Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.
Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday,
I am yours most sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Though he already knew it by heart, Harry had been stealing glances at this missive every few minutes since seven o'clock that evening, when he had first taken up his position beside his bedroom window, which had a reasonable view of both ends of Privet Drive. He knew it was pointless to keep rereading Dumbledore's words; Harry had sent back his "yes" with the delivering owl, as requested, and all he could do now was wait: either Dumbledore was going to come, or he was not.
He couldn't help but feel like Dumbledore was trying to redeem himself for the poor way in which he'd treated Harry the previous year. Of course, Dumbledore only ever did what he thought was best for the Order, but no one could deny his methods had been less than desirable. So his attempts to make up for it softened Harry's pained heart a little.
Harry had not packed. It just seemed too good to be true that he was going to be rescued from the Dursleys after a mere fortnight of their company. He could not shrug off the feeling that something was going to go wrong - his reply to Dumbledore's letter might have gone astray; Dumbledore could be prevented from collecting him; the letter might turn out not to be from Dumbledore at all, but a trick or joke or trap. Harry had not been able to face packing and then being let down and having to unpack again. The only gesture he had made to the possibility of a journey was to shut his snowy owl, Hedwig, safely in her cage.
Or perhaps he simply felt he did not deserve to be so happy, not after everything that had happened. Not after he and his friends were still bound by the sorrow of Y/N. His pain was, after all, their pain. And although they were separated by miles of land and ocean, Harry felt as though he could still telepathically feel Y/N's misery and grief.
And he was sure Hermione and Ron felt the same way.
Hermione surely was the most affected, it would be a miracle if she showed up at the Burrow at all, and would Ron and Ginny be happy to have Harry over simply to save him from the Dursleys? There was no way they'd be spending the summer having a grand vacation after all. Everyone was still hurting.
The minute hand on the alarm clock reached the number twelve and, at that precise moment, the street-lamp outside the window went out.
Harry awoke as though the sudden darkness were an alarm. Hastily straightening his glasses and unsticking his cheek from the glass, he pressed his nose against the window instead and squinted down at the pavement. A tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the garden path.
Harry jumped up as though he had received an electric shock, knocked over his chair, and started snatching anything and everything within reach from the floor and throwing it into the trunk. Then as he lobbed a set of robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of clasps across the room, the doorbell rang. Downstairs in the living room his Uncle Vernon shouted, "Who the blazes is calling at this lime of night?"
Harry froze with a brass telescope in one hand and a pair of trainers in the other. He had completely forgotten to warn the Dursleys that Dumbledore might be coming. Feeling both panicky mid close to laughter, he clambered over the trunk and wrenched open his bedroom door in time to hear a deep voice say, "Good evening. You must be Mr. Dursley. I daresay Harry has told you I would be coming for him?"
Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several steps from the bottom, as long experience had taught him to remain out of arm's reach of his uncle whenever possible. There in the doorway stood a tall, thin man with waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a long black traveling cloak and pointed hat. Vernon Dursley, whose mustache was quite as bushy as Dumbledore's, though black, and who was wearing a puce dressing gown, was staring at the visitor as though he could not believe his tiny eyes.
"Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that I was coming," said Dumbledore pleasantly. "However, let us assume that you have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times."
He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind him.
"It is a long time since my last visit," said Dumbledore, peering down his crooked nose at Uncle Vernon. "I must say, your agapanthus are flourishing."
Vernon Dursley said nothing at all. Harry did not doubt that speech would return to him, and soon - the vein pulsing in his uncle's temple was reaching danger point--but something about Dumbledore seemed to have robbed him temporarily of breath. It might have been the blatant wizardishness of his appearance, but it might, too, have been that even Uncle Vernon could sense that here was a man whom it would be very difficult to bully.
"Ah, good evening Harry," said Dumbledore, looking up at him through his half-moon glasses with a most satisfied expression. "Excellent, excellent."
These words seemed to rouse Uncle Vernon. It was clear that as far as he was concerned, any man who could look at Harry and say "excellent" was a man with whom he could never see eye to eye.
"I don't mean to be rude - " he began, in a tone that threatened rudeness in every syllable.
"- yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often," Dumbledore finished the sentence gravely. "Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah, and this must be Petunia."
The kitchen door had opened, and there stood Harry's aunt, wearing rubber gloves and a housecoat over her nightdress, clearly halfway through her usual pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Her rather horsey face registered nothing but shock.
"Albus Dumbledore," said Dumbledore, when Uncle Vernon failed to effect an introduction. "We have corresponded, of course." Harry thought this an odd way of reminding Aunt Petunia that he had once sent her an exploding letter, but Aunt Petunia did not challenge the term. "And this must be your son, Dudley?"
Dudley had that moment peered round the living room door, his large, blond head rising out of the stripy collar of his pajamas looked oddly disembodied, his mouth gaping in astonishment and fear.
Harry was once again reminded of the fact that Dudley was in fact an entirely different person at home than when he was with his mates on the streets. It was hard to believe that the big baby in striped pyjamas at the doorway was the same oaf who was robbing a man's wallet just yesterday.
Dumbledore waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether any of the Dursleys were going to say anything, but as the silence stretched on he smiled.
"Shall we assume that you have invited me into your sitting room?"
Dudley scrambled out of the way as Dumbledore passed him. Harry, still clutching the telescope and trainers, jumped the last few stairs and followed Dumbledore, who had settled himself in the armchair nearest the fire and was taking in the surroundings wilh an expression of benign interest. He looked quite extraordinarily out of place.
"Aren't - aren't we leaving, sir?" Harry asked anxiously.
"Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we need to discuss first," said Dumbledore. "And I would prefer not to do so in the open. We shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer."
"You will, will you?"
Vernon Dursley had entered the room, Petunia at his shoulder, and Dudley skulking behind them both.
"Yes," said Dumbledore simply, "I shall."
He drew his wand so rapidly that Harry barely saw it; with a casual flick, the sofa zoomed forward and knocked the knees out from under all three of the Dursleys so that they collapsed upon it in a heap. Another flick of the wand and the sofa zoomed back to its original position.
"We may as well be comfortable," said Dumbledore pleasantly.
As he replaced his wand in his pocket, Harry saw that his hand was blackened and shriveled; it looked as though his flesh had been burned away.
"Sir - what happened to your -?"
"Later, Harry," said Dumbledore. "Please sit down."
Harry took the remaining armchair, choosing not to look at the Dursleys, who seemed stunned into silence.
"I would assume that you were going to offer me refreshment," Dumbledore said to Uncle Vernon, "but the evidence so far suggests that that would be optimistic to the point of foolishness."
A third twitch of the wand, and a dusty bottle and five glasses appeared in midair. The bottle tipped and poured a generous measure of honey-colored liquid into each of the glasses, which then floated to each person in the room.
"Madam Rosmerta's finest oak-matured mead," said Dumbledore, raising his glass to Harry, who caught hold of his own and sipped. He had never tasted anything like it before, but enjoyed it immensely. The Dursleys, after quick, scared looks at one another, tried to ignore their glasses completely, a difficult feat, as they were nudging them gently on the sides of their heads. Harry could not suppress a suspicion that Dumbledore was rather enjoying himself.
"Well, Harry," said Dumbledore, turning toward him, "a difficulty has arisen which I hope you will be able to solve for us. By us, I mean the Order of the Phoenix. But first of all I must tell you that Sirius's will was discovered a week ago and that he left you everything he owned."
Over on the sofa, Uncle Vernons head turned, but Harry did not look at him, nor could he think of anything to say except, "Oh. Right."
"This is, in the main, fairly straightforward," Dumbledore went on. "You add a reasonable amount of gold to your account at Gringotts, and you inherit all of Sirius's personal possessions. The slightly problematic part of the legacy--"
"His godfather's dead?" said Uncle Vernon loudly from the sofa. Dumbledore and Harry both turned to look at him. The glass of mead was now knocking quite insistently on the side of Vernon's head; he attempted to beat it away. "He's dead? His godfather?"
Dumbledore did not look pleased. It was as close to a glare Harry had even seen on the old wizards face.
"Yes," he said. He did not ask Harry why he had not confided in the Dursleys. "Our problem," he continued to Harry, as if there had been no interruption, "is that Sirius also left you number twelve, Grimmauld Place."
"He's been left a house?" said Uncle Vernon greedily, his small eyes narrowing, but nobody answered him.
"You can keep using it as headquarters," said Harry. "I don't care. You can have it, I don't really want it." Harry never wanted to set foot in number twelve, Grimmauld Place again if he could help it. He thought he would be haunted forever by the memory of Sirius prowling its dark musty rooms alone, imprisoned within the place he had wanted so desperately to leave.
"That is generous," said Dumbledore. "We have, however, vacated the building temporarily."
"Why?"
"Well," said Dumbledore, ignoring the mutterings of Uncle Vernon, who was now being rapped smartly over the head by the persistent glass of mead, "Black family tradition decreed that the house was handed down the direct line, to the next male with the name of 'Black.' Sirius was the very last of the line as his younger brother, Regulus, predeceased him and both were childless. While his will makes it perfectly plain that he wants you to have the house, it is nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment has been set upon the place to ensure that it cannot be owned by anyone other than a pure-blood."
A vivid image of the shrieking, spitting portrait of Sirius's mother that hung in the hall of number twelve, Grimmauld Place flashed into Harry's mind. "I bet there has," he said.
"Quite," said Dumbledore. "And if such an enchantment exists, then the ownership of the house is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius's living relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange."
Without realizing what he was doing, Harry sprang to his feet; the telescope and trainers in his lap rolled across the floor. Bellatrix Lestrange, Sirius's killer, inherit his house?
"No," he said.
"Well, obviously we would prefer that she didn't get it either," said Dumbledore calmly. "The situation is fraught with complications. We do not know whether the enchantments we ourselves have placed upon it, for example, making it Unplottable, will hold now that ownership has passed from Sirius's hands. It might be that Bellatrix will arrive on the doorstep at any moment. Naturally we had to move out until such time as we have clarified the position,"
"But how are you going to find out if I'm allowed to own it?"
"Fortunately," said Dumbledore, "there is a simple test."
He placed his empty glass on a small table beside his chair, but before he could do anything else, Uncle Vernon shouted, "Will you get these ruddy things off us?"
Harry looked around; all three of the Dursleys were cowering with their arms over their heads as their glasses bounced up and down on their skulls, their contents flying everywhere.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Dumbledore politely, and he raised his wand again. All three glasses vanished. "But it would have been better manners to drink it, you know."
It looked as though Uncle Vernon was bursting with any number of unpleasant retorts, but he merely shrank back into the cushions with Aunt Petunia and Dudley and said nothing, keeping his small piggy eyes on Dumbledore's wand.
"You see," Dumbledore said, turning back to Harry and again speaking as though Uncle Vernon had not uttered, "if you have indeed inherited the house, you have also inherited -"
He flicked his wand for a fifth time. There was a loud crack, and a house-elf appeared, with a snout for a nose, giant bat's ears, and enormous bloodshot eyes, crouching on the Dursleys' shag carpet and covered in grimy rags. Aunt Petunia let out a hair-raising shriek; nothing this filthy had entered her house in living memory. Dudley drew his large, bare, pink feet off the floor and sat with them raised almost above his head, as though he thought the creature might run up his pajama trousers, and Uncle Vernon bellowed, "What the hell is that?"
"Kreacher," finished Dumbledore.
"Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't!" croaked the house-elf, quite as loudly as Uncle Vernon, stamping his long, gnarled feet and pulling his ears. "Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, Kreacher belongs to the Blacks, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won't go to the Potter brat, Kreacher won't, won't, won't - "
"As you can see, Harry," said Dumbledore loudly, over Kreacher's continued croaks of "wont, won't, won't," "Kreacher is showing a certain reluctance to pass into your ownership."
"I don't care," said Harry again, looking with disgust at the writhing, stamping house-elf. "I don't want him."
"Won't, won't, won't, won't -"
"You would prefer him to pass into the ownership of Bellatrix Lestrange? Bearing in mind that he has lived at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix for the past year?"
"Won't, won't, won't, won't -"
Harry stared at Dumbledore. He knew that Kreacher could not be permitted to go and live with Bellatrix Lestrange, but the idea of owning him, of having responsibility for the creature that had betrayed Sirius, was repugnant.
"Give him an order," said Dumbledore. "If he has passed into your ownership, he will have to obey. If not, then we shall have to think of some other means of keeping him from his rightful mistress."
"Won't, won't, won't, WON'T!"
Kreacher's voice had risen to a scream. Harry could think of nothing to say, except, "Kreacher, shut the hell up!"
It looked for a moment as though Kreacher was going to choke. He grabbed his throat, his mouth still working furiously, his eyes bulging. After a few seconds of frantic gulping, he threw himself face forward onto the carpet (Aunt Petunia whimpered) and beat the floor with his hands and feet, giving himself over to a violent, but entirely silent, tantrum.
"Well, that simplifies matters," said Dumbledore cheerfully. "It means that Sirius knew what he was doing. You are the rightful owner of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher."
"Do I - do I have to keep him with me?" Harry asked, aghast, as Kreacher thrashed around at his feet.
"Not if you don't want to," said Dumbledore. "If I might make a suggestion, you could send him to Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In that way, the other house-elves could keep an eye on him."
"Yeah," said Harry in relief, "yeah, I'll do that. Er - Kreacher - I want you to go to Hogwarts and work in the kitchens there with the other house-elves."
Kreacher, who was now lying flat on his back with his arms and legs in the air, gave Harry one upside-down look of deepest loathing and, with another loud crack, vanished.
"Good," said Dumbledore. "There is also the matter of the hippogriff, Buckbeak. Hagrid has been looking after him since Sirius died, but Buckbeak is yours now, so if you would prefer to make different arrangements--"
"No," said Harry at once, "he can stay with Hagrid. I think Buckbeak would prefer that."
"Hagrid will be delighted," said Dumbledore, smiling. "He was thrilled to see Buckbeak again. Incidentally, we have decided, in the interests of Buckbeak's safety, to rechristen him 'Witherwings' for the time being, though I doubt that the Ministry would ever guess he is the hippogriff they once sentenced to death. Now, Harry, is your trunk packed?"
"Erm..."
"Doubtful that I would turn up?" Dumbledore suggested shrewdly.
"I'll just go and - er - finish off," said Harry hastily, hurrying to pick up his fallen telescope and trainers.
It took him a little over ten minutes to track down everything he needed; at last he had managed to extract his Invisibility Cloak from under the bed, screwed the top back on his jar of color-change ink, and forced the lid of his trunk shut on his cauldron. Then, heaving his trunk in one hand and holding Hedwig's cage in the other, he made his way back downstairs.
He was disappointed to discover that Dumbledore was not waiting in the hall, which meant that he had to return to the living room.
Nobody was talking. Dumbledore was humming quietly, apparently quite at his ease, but the atmosphere was thicker than cold custard, and Harry did not dare look at the Dursleys as he said, "Professor--I'm ready now."
"Good," said Dumbledore. "Just one last thing, then." And he turned to speak to the Dursleys once more.
"As you will no doubt be aware, Harry comes of age in a year's time -"
"No," said Aunt Petunia, speaking for the first time since Dumbledore's arrival.
"I'm sorry?" said Dumbledore politely.
"No, he doesn't. He's a month younger than Dudley, and Dudders doesn't turn eighteen until the year after next."
"Ah," said Dumbledore pleasantly, "but in the Wizarding world, we come of age at seventeen."
Uncle Vernon muttered, "Preposterous," but Dumbledore ignored him.
"Now, as you already know, the wizard called Lord Voldemort has returned to this country. The Wizarding community is currently in a state of open warfare. Harry, whom Lord Voldemort has already attempted to kill on a number of occasions, is in even greater danger now than the day when I left him upon your doorstep fifteen years ago, with a letter explaining about his parents' murder and expressing the hope that you would care for him as though he were your own."
Dumbledore paused, and although his voice remained light and calm, and he gave no obvious sign of anger, Harry felt a kind of chill emanating from him and noticed that the Dursleys drew very slightly closer together.
"You did not do as I asked. You have never treated Harry as a son. He has known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at your hands. The best that can be said is that he has at least escaped the appalling damage you have inflicted upon the unfortunate boy sitting between you."
Both Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked around instinctively, as though expecting to see someone other than Dudley squeezed between them.
"Us - mistreat Dudders? What d'you - ?" began Uncle Vernon furiously, but Dumbledore raised his ringer for silence, a silence which fell as though he had struck Uncle Vernon dumb.
"The magic I evoked fifteen years ago means that Harry has powerful protection while he can still call this house 'home.' However miserable he has been here, however unwelcome, however badly treated, you have at least, grudgingly, allowed him houseroom. This magic will cease to operate the moment that Harry turns seventeen; in other words, at the moment he becomes a man. I ask only this: that you allow Harry to return, once more, to this house, before his seventeenth birthday, which will ensure that the protection continues until that time."
Again, Harry's heart felt warm. After five years of knowing Dumbledore, and most importantly, knowing that Dumbledore was directly responsible for him spending his traumatic childhood in the custody of the brutish and abusive Dursleys, Dumbledore finally acknowledged, in words, that Harry was in fact a mistreated, abused, and beaten child, and most of all, Dumbledore had actually confronted these animals about it.
It did not make up for the fact that Harry had been raised by them at all, or that no one ever took his upbringing seriously, but it was a start.
None of the Dursleys said anything. Dudley was frowning slightly, as though he was still trying to work out when he had ever been mistreated. Uncle Vernon looked as though he had something stuck in his throat; Aunt Petunia, however, was oddly flushed.
The worst part, they did not deny that Harry was anything more than a servant to them.
"Well, Harry... time for us to be off," said Dumbledore at last, standing up and straightening his long black cloak. "Until we meet again," he said to the Dursleys, who looked as though that moment could wait forever as far as they were concerned, and after doffing his hat, he turned to leave the room.
"One minute, Professor," said Harry. "One last thing."
"Yes, Harry?"
"What - what is going to happen to Y/N?"
Dumbledore did not answer immediately. "I - do not know, Harry. Many believe me to be omniscient, and sometimes, especially in cases like these, I very much wish I was."
"Do you know how long his sentence is?"
"I do not." said Dumbledore. "The death of his family... there is nothing else in which I could myself more."
"What do you mean?"
"His descent, Harry, his descent!" cried Dumbledore. "I played a direct part in his his actions, I played a part in why he is locked in Azkaban today, I played a part in why he detests the magical world so, and most importantly, I played a part in the slaughter of his family. If only I hadn't tried so hard to pull him away from what he'd been prophesied to be, if only I'd made more of an effort with him, his destiny wouldn't be so inevitable!"
Harry's mind was going numb.
"It isn't your fault, Professor." said Harry quietly.
"Oh, but it is." said Dumbledore. "Every decision I made is a direct consequence in young Y/N's current condition. The truths I hid, the very aspect of his fate I tried to fight, what's happened to his poor sister... it could have all been avoided..."
Dumbledore’s moment of weakness was interupted by Uncle Vernon.
"That beast is locked up, is he?" he said, in a quiet but carrying voice. "The one who tried to kill my dudders last year? Serves him right! I knew a monster like that wouldn't last long... good on your wizarding law for finally taking him in -"
Harry made to shout his Uncle down, but as he turned, something red zipped past his ear and hit his uncle square in the chest. Vernon, crumpled, and fell back onto the sofa, knocked out.
"Vernon!"
"Dad!"
Both Petunia and Dudley panicked, trying to shake him awake.
"I think it's time we left, Harry." said Dumbledore, stowing away his wand, his blue eyes cold like ice.
"Bye," said Harry hastily to the Dursleys, and followed Dumbledore, who paused beside Harry's trunk, upon which Hedwig's cage was perched.
"We do not want to be encumbered by these just now," he said, pulling out his wand again. "I shall send them to the Burrow to await us there. However, I would like you to bring your Invisibility Cloak... just in case."
Harry extracted his cloak from his trunk with some difficulty, trying not to show Dumbledore the mess within. When he had stuffed it into an inside pocket of his jacket, Dumbiedore waved his wand and the trunk, cage, and Hedwig vanished. Dumbledore then waved his wand again, and the front door opened onto cool, misty darkness.
"And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure."
* * *
Minister Scrimgeour stepped out of his carriage and into the sandy shore, the smell of saltwater steadily filling his nostrils.
"Bring him out," he barked, to a burly Ministry worker who'd been steering the winged horse drawn carriage. The worker reached into the back seat and hurled a large, squirming brown sack over his shoulder.
Both he and Scrimgeour traversed the sandy shore and approached the ominous black fortress beyond. The sky was grey and the wind blew bits of sand into Scrimgeour's mouth as he walked.
"Halt!" called a booming voice, forcing them to stop walking a few feet away from the main entrance.
"State your name, appointment time, and business."
"My name is Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic. My appointment is booked for 10 p.m. and I was agreed to meet with Prisoner 14009."
Only high-ranked Ministry officials were granted permission to enter the prison and meet with the prisoners, even after all the recent changes. And nothing was quite higher than the Minster for Magic himself.
"A guard will be with you shortly to confiscate your wand and other magical belongings, Mr Scrimgeour. What is in the sack?"
"The new inmate we agreed I'd deliver in person." Scrimgeour replied. "Forgive me for his less that humane - er, packaging, but as an ex-Auror, I have a distaste for criminals of this nature and this is my way of restraining them. You understand."
"We will be searching that, as well."
"Understood."
There was no reception area or anything of the sort. So when the voice had said, 'we'll be with you shortly', it meant they had to wait, as though they were in a reception, shivering in the biting cold outside, standing around like two buffoons with a sack.
Finally, two guards appeared from seemingly nowhere to confiscate their wands and search their belongings.
When they opened the sack, they first petrified the person squirming inside it to ensure his ultimate security. Once everything was in order, Scrimgeour and his burly partner were held gruffly by the arms by the guards and Portkeyed directly into the fortress, seeing as it didn't actually have a door in its entrance.
They were lead down a corridor of cells filled with what would have usually been quiet, submissive prisoners. This time, however, the prisoners were rowdy, loud, and calling out some very derogatory names.
Scrimgeour was not used to feeling so normal in Azkaban, which usually was thick with the tense and cold atmosphere of Dementors, so feeling as normal as he did made him feel naked in the cold, a cold much worse than that he had to endure while waiting outside.
Finally, it seemed they'd arrived at the cell they wanted.
A figure, shrowded in shadow sat on a bed in the far end if the cell, it seemed he'd been sitting in that same position for a very long time. Scrimgeour would be unsurprised if it turned out that all this particular inmate did in his cell was sit, unmoving like a statue, no sign of fidgeting or rustling.
With a deep breath, Scrimgeour spoke.
"Are you Y/N L/N?"