Title: NO TITLE AS OF YET
Disclaimer: Don't own Potter. Try not to take weapons – I've worked hard on them with friends.
Summary: So Harry's wrongly imprisoned in Azkaban. Nothing new there, right? Wrong. Harry's tired of being Dumbledore's weapon, Voldemort's target and the press' playboy. He takes matters into his own hands, especially when his loyal friends come to bust him out. Angry!Sexy!Harry makes an appearance.
Chapter One: Hit and Run
Harry had known that the summer before his sixth year at Hogwarts was going to be difficult. He just never realized how difficult. In fact, he had been planning to mope around, maybe yell and punch Dudley, and do his best to ignore the "guards" that were stationed around his house for his protection.
Then again, when Harry Potter is involved, things don't exactly go by plan. Harry, who had been following to the best of his abilities, the Daily Prophet for news on Voldemort was sorely disappointed on the lack of Death Eater sightings. There wasn't any, so instead he read about the arrival of the foreign vice-minister of France, a monsieur Pierre Laroux.
He was apparently a squib, meaning that he was born from a family that could do magic, but he himself couldn't. He also happened to be married to a Muggle, and had a Muggle family, which made things worse for him because of his status in the French Ministry. He lived amongst Muggles, behaved like one, but was sent as an emissary to England's Ministry of Magic to talk to Fudge in lieu of the French Minister of Magic.
Harry understood all this; it was a pretty big thing, especially with Voldemort on the loose these days. However, Harry couldn't have known what was going to happen next.
On the morning of July 31, Harry woke up glad to be sixteen. He had survived another year, despite Voldemort's best efforts to kill him, and was going to start his advanced classes at Hogwarts in a month's time. He had been sent various nifty gifts from friends for his birthday, as well: defense books, sneak-o-scopes, a wand holster, his OWL results, his school books for the upcoming year, a diary that belonged to Sirius (from Remus), and a bunch of new clothes that Tonks and Kingsley had supplied for Harry after seeing him in the second-hand rags that he wore.
Mrs. Weasley had sent a birthday cake, but Harry didn't get much of a chance to eat it. Rather, he was disgusted in its state: there were pieces and chunks missing from it and a hastily written notes stating, don't worry, your cake isn't poisoned. He was immediately swept downstairs by his Aunt to make the Dursley's breakfast (as usual) and once he was done, started on the chores that he had to complete before the day was out.
The sun was bearing down on Harry; sweat made his t-shirt cling to the back of his neck and spine. He was on his knees (his pants were going to have grass stains), pulling weeds from Aunt Petunia's garden in the backyard. The sun was sweltering, and the hose-ban had been placed back into effect as yet another extremely warm mid-summer began.
He longed for a chance to douse himself in water, but knew that he couldn't. Apparently, because of the hose-ban, he could take washing Uncle Vernon's car off the chores list, making it immensely shorter to his relief.
After weeding, Harry brought out the lawn mower and set to work first in the backyard, and then the front.
Harry whirled and had his eyes roaming Privet Drive for the witch or wizard that had apparated. They weren't even very conspicuous about it, because many neighbors stuck their heads out of the window and looked around for the source of the noise. Unperturbed, Harry turned back and continued to mow, looking dismally down at his white sneakers that now had green around the toes and sides. Oh well. He never liked them anyway.
Doing household chores that physically drained Harry was like Godsend. He couldn't allow his brain to wander, or to think, because if he did, he would be painfully reminded of the last few seconds of his godfather's life.
Immediately, flashes of memory blinked in and out of focus in front of him: visions of Neville under crucio, Hermione falling under the stunners, Ron being attacked by the brain, Sirius's once handsome face filled with shock as he fell through the veil, Bellatrix's voice taunting him.
Harry cringed and closed his eyes.
"No, not here, not here, please not here, not now," he murmured under his breath, a mantra that continued until the faces and voices and smells receded and he was left with the smell of freshly cut grass, hamburgers being grilled near by, and the voices of children shrieking and laughing from number 5's backyard swimming pool.
Harry was once again back in the safety of the real world, the Muggle world, a world where Voldemort was just a bunch of French words placed together and Death Eaters sounded like the latest video game.
Once he was finished with the lawn, Harry wiped a string of sweat from his brow and glanced around. Tonks' latest disguise wasn't very convincing: she was dressed up as a punk from the early 1980's, and was currently being look at oddly from the rest of the Privet Drive conservative neighbors. She stuck out like a sore thumb.
Harry shrugged, turned, and walked inside 4 Privet Drive with the idea of a bowl of pasta for lunch from a tin. He entered through the front hall, glancing into the living room to see Dudley eating contently at a large plate of steak and side dishes watching the telly. Sighing, Harry made his way into the kitchen and set about to make his pasta.
Opening cupboards, he found that there was only one tin of Mythology Zoodles, so he took that. He dumped the contents into a bowl and heated it through the microwave, watching the digital numbers count down.
The microwave beeped, telling Harry it was done warming his meal, and Harry gathered a spoon and glass of milk. He then retrieved his bowl of Zoodles and sat at the table, staring into the orange pasta.
He blinked a couple of times before realizing he was not imagining the Zoodles characters: there were griffins, phoenixes, unicorns, dragons, Pegasus's, Yeti's, and even a basilisk. Harry suddenly didn't feel very hungry anymore.
He was staring at the bowl when he realized that he needed to go for a walk. He needed to get his mind off everything that had happened, and he needed to have some quality time in a peaceful location where Dudley and his gang of bullies haven't destroyed anything yet.
Cleaning his bowl and putting his utensils away, Harry grabbed his wand and jacket that were in his room and left the house, looking both ways. Another crack echoed through the area and Harry sighed. His guards were changing shifts.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, and ignoring the heat (it cooled down considerably at night, and Harry wasn't sure how long he'd be), he started walking down Privet Drive, turning onto Wisteria and then further still, until he was out of his usual neighborhood.
He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he missed the loud crack.
Harry didn't return to Privet Drive until it was well after sundown; in this case, it was nearly midnight when he returned to the house. He had rethought his opinions on the war, Dumbledore, and Sirius' death. He didn't want to become a weapon, but he realized that if he were going to be killed, he would rather fight back. It wasn't in his nature to sit back and not fight, he realized. He had always fought.
He remembered when he was younger, back when he just started school. He was always alone; Dudley had made sure of that. Harry was used to being alone – throughout his whole life he had been pushed aside, yelled at, belittled all because he was that beastly Harry Potter, that little freak, the one that no one wanted. One particular memory was when he was starting his first day of school. Dudley already had Peter Polkis and his other friends, and Harry had hoped to make some of this own. He hoped there would be someone who would like him for him and that Dudley wouldn't scare them away. Harry had met a nice boy, his age, who was shy and liked to read. Another liked to show off his magic tricks. Harry had befriended them, painfully shy and soft-spoken. They had gotten along until lunch when Dudley beat them up. They had refused to talk to Harry again after that.
Harry then remembered seeing Sirius' face for the first time. It was on the telly, where the newscaster was saying he was a dangerous criminal. Then, he remember Mr. Weasley's words: "It's always the same thing. 'He's at Hogwarts.' The guards say he talks in his sleep." Sirius wasn't after him thought – he was after Peter Pettigrew, who happened to still be at large. And Sirius had offered Harry a home. A real home, a real place to stay. The joy he had felt and the look of surprise and wonderment and amazement on Sirius' face was enough for Harry at that moment of reminiscing to give a small chuckle. God, I miss you Sirius.
He sighed some more, and looked at the clouds, picking out ones that looked like Hogwarts, Mrs. Norris, Buckbeak, and Padfoot.
After lazing about the park for a while, watching clouds go by and getting a slight tan from being out in the warm sun, he decided to head back, still lost in happier memories involving himself and his godfather.
He walked through the back door of 4 Privet Drive, and immediately saw his Uncle's purple face. He knew that they didn't mind his late walks – in fact, they encouraged it as long as he kept quiet and came through the back. Unsure of this new rage, he glanced around and stepped into the living room – only to be accosted by dozens of wands pointing at him. Some of the wands, Harry saw with dismay, included Tonks' and Kingsley's. The Aurors were stationed around the room, sitting on the sofa and armchair, while the others were standing. Aunt Petunia and Dudley were huddled in one corner, with Uncle Vernon standing at the doorway to the kitchen and living room. Confused, and worried (as they were all Aurors), Harry asked, "What's going on?"
One of the Aurors with the name Handler said gruffly, "Harry Potter, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to a lawyer, and a right to contact three people to explain what is going on. Your guardians are allowed to come with you to the Wizengamot where you will stand trial tomorrow morning at nine o'clock."
"What? What am I accused of?" Harry asked, panicking now, as Tonks came forward and confiscated Harry's wand.
"Wotcher, Harry," Tonks said quietly, her eyes sad and disappointed as she placed Harry's wand in the folds of her Aurors robes.
Harry's breathing deepened, and he swallowed convulsively. With his hands trembling, he allowed Tonks to place a hand on his shoulder and usher him toward the middle of the Auror group, where Kingsley was holding an old shoe – a portkey. A portkey that went straight into the Ministry, where he would be held, like a common criminal.
Oh, God, oh fuck, oh not again, Harry's panicked mind whirled with thoughts and images of his last meeting with the Wizengamot. His eyes darted everywhere at once, wondering what was going to happen to him.
His hand unwillingly touched the portkey and immediately he disappeared with a tug on his navel. He didn't know how he managed, but he remained upright when he finally appeared at the end of the portkey location.
He bit his lip to hold back a choked cry; he was in the entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic, staring at the repaired statue of the house elf, centaur and goblin looking up at the wizard. Harry felt sick as he looked at the gleaming gold. He remembered all too well what happened the last time he was here.
The Aurors led Harry down twisting and twining hallways until they reached their destination. Harry entered the room. The walls were whitewashed, and there was a single wood table with matching chairs surrounding it. Harry knew what the room was used for: interrogations.
"What's going on?" he tried again, mustering up all his innocence. If he made it look like he was extremely nervous and scared (which wasn't far off), someone might take pity on him and tell him.
No one did, however. He was pushed into one of the chairs, while Kingsley and Tonks stood behind him, their arms crossed. Handler, and two other Aurors Harry didn't know took the seats opposite to him and leaned forward, their arms crossed.
"Where were you tonight, Harry?" Handler asked.
Harry swallowed again. "I went for a walk after lunch," he answered truthfully, carefully.
"Where did you go?"
"I went to a park. There was a bit of forestry there and I sat on the ground. Meditated. I needed to go somewhere to think," he answered again. "Did something happen? Why am I under arrest?"
Handler ignored him and brought out an official looking folder. He scribbled something using a quick-notes quill and raised his eyebrows as he looked at Harry again. "Do you have proof of this?"
"I was by myself. No one knew where I was going," he said, inwardly grousing. No witnesses. Not a good sign.
"Do you know who this is, Potter?" Handler asked, sliding a photo across the table at Harry. The man on the photo looked back at him: he had a large forehead, brown hair that was thinning, kind brown eyes and laugh lines around his mouth.
"Sure, that's Pierre Laroux. He's been in the Daily Prophet for a while now. Why?"
Handler exchanged glances with the Aurors beside him. "Why, Potter? Because he was found dead in his hotel room this afternoon, at three-thirty two."
Harry didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say.
"Why don't you look over there, Potter?" Handler suggested, pointing to the far wall. Harry turned his head slightly, and then saw a picture appear on the wall. The room darkened, and Harry realized he was seeing the equivalent to a video.
But what he saw made his face pale and his hands tremble.
The time stamp on the bottom of the image was numbered at 3:04 pm, July 31, 1996. The image was of a fancy hotel lobby. The camera angle was pointed down, so that it could see all people walking in and out of the building through the front revolving doors. What he saw chilled him. A splitting image of himself appeared, walking confidently and slowly into the hotel lobby. He wore a similar jacket to Harry's (down to the same colour and style), baggy and ripped jeans, and had the same glasses. The doppelganger looked up and stared into the camera for a few seconds before walking off screen.
The image changed to the elevator, where he saw his doppelganger again, this time he was removing a wand from his pocket and was cleaning it casually and meticulously. The elevator stopped at the tenth floor, and doppelganger Harry exited.
Again, a new scene: Harry walking down hallway of the tenth floor, stopping at an unidentifiable room number door. Harry knocked on it, and when it opened, the doppelganger's arm came crashing down simultaneously as his lips formed two words: Avada Kedavra…
The figure standing in the doorway, a tall man in a business suit, fell to the floor dead. Harry threw his head back and appeared to cackle madly, before pocketing the wand and disappearing the way he came in.
The images on the wall faded and the lights in the white room came back on. The five Aurors stared at Harry, who was pale and ready to faint.
"You… y-you can't be serious… me? Kill someone… no, I wouldn't…" Harry breathlessly tried to convince the five that he was innocent.
"That was you, Mr. Potter," sneered Handler. "No one else. That is our evidence. Nothing you say will change that. As you have no witnesses, and nothing to say in your defense, I'm afraid that you'll be leaving this room within the next fifteen minutes before transportation will arrive to take you to Azkaban."
Harry's eyes widened and stared at Handler at the mention of the prison. "Azkaban? No! You can't!"
Handler's eyes narrowed. "I can and will, Potter. I'm the head of the Auror Division here at the Ministry. Is there anyone you would like to speak to before you leave?"
Harry thought quickly. "Remus Lupin. Professor Dumbledore."
Handler nodded at the two Aurors beside him, who got up and left through a cleverly hidden and camouflaged door. "I'll give you ten minutes, Potter, to recover yourself." He nodded at Harry, who was staring down at his hands. They were tightly clenched together, the knuckles turning white in his effort to stop from shaking and vomiting.
"I didn't do it, Tonks. You have to believe me, I didn't!" Harry suddenly said, glancing behind him at Kingsley and Tonks.
"Oh, Harry," sniffled Tonks, "How could you? It was you, who else could it be? I know… his death affected you deeply."
"Tonks! I didn't! It could have been polyjuice! Why would I kill someone I don't know?" Harry tried again. He glanced at Kingsley only to see the other Order member didn't meet his eyes. Swallowing self-righteous anger, Harry nodded. He spoke coolly instead. "I see. Never mind silly, insane, attention-seeking Harry Potter. He only wants people to look at him, right? Who cares that he lost his parents? That he saw Voldemort return, and that he watched his only ever known father die. Who cares, right?"
He laughed humorlessly, and turned back in his seat to stare at the wall in front of him. He heard Tonks' feet shuffle closer, and heard a small, "Harry…" but the sound of footsteps and then the door opening had her back against the wall.
Handler appeared with Dumbledore and Remus, both of them looking fatigued. Harry stood, feeling a bubble of relief. He'd be okay now.
"One at a time, Potter?" at Harry's nod, Handler continued. "Tonks, Kingsley, leave. Which one do you want to talk to first?"
"Professor Dumbledore, please," said Harry politely and quietly. Handler nodded and the others left the room.
Harry sat, and Dumbledore took the seat across from him. Harry looked at the Headmaster and with a start, realized that the twinkle was gone in his eyes and the man looked older than he ever had, even when Harry was up for expulsion last year. Realization pounded into Harry with the force of a two-by-four.
"You think I did it," he accused the old man, shock lacing into his words. "You fucking think I killed the man."
Dumbledore heaved a heavy sigh. "Harry, the person on your watch, Joseph Appleby, said that you disappeared when you turned a corner. He couldn't follow you, and when he turned the corner you were gone. He couldn't find anything that belonged to you – he knew there was no forced abduction or the likes. He immediately went to the Headquarters and alerted all members. We went searching for you, until we learned what happened. Why?"
"I didn't do it!" Harry protested. "I swear it on my parents' graves, on Sirius! I didn't – do – it!"
Dumbledore's expression became grave. "Do not disrespect your parents' sacrifice and Sirius's death with such talk! How could you?"
Harry inwardly winced at the thundering tone of Dumbledore's voice, but he knew it was a lost cause. Dumbledore didn't believe him. If he didn't, no one else would. Coldly, Harry said, "I believe our conversation is over. Please send Remus in."
Dumbledore stood, his expression one of disappointment and weary acceptance. "I'm very disappointed in you, Harry."
Harry turned his head away. "As I am in you."
Ignoring Dumbledore's frown, he drummed his fingers on the table and waited for Remus to come into the room. When he did, Harry stood, and watched him.
He looked into his eyes, and there he saw pain, loss, anger, but no disappointment, nothing condemning him. "You believe that I didn't do it," Harry breathed, relieved. He slumped tiredly into the chair.
Remus took three strides to his best friends' son and swept Harry into a hug. "I don't know how, pup, but we'll get you out of this. I swear it."
"It won't work, Moony," Harry whispered, feeling the hot sting of tears, as he gulped in air. "Dumbledore doesn't believe me."
Remus pulled back. "What? What do you mean, he doesn't believe you?" His amber eyes flashed slightly, but his hands tightened on Harry's shoulders in a gentle reminder of faith.
"He thinks I did it. He said he was disappointed in me. I swore it on my parents and Sirius' deaths that I didn't do it and he yelled. Said I disrespected them."
Remus sighed and pulled Harry close to him again. "I'm so sorry, Harry. So sorry."
"They say a new member was following me. I couldn't have lost him, Remus! I was walking so slowly. I went to the park, and watched the clouds. I was thinking about everything that happened. I lost track of time and left when it was getting dark… but I didn't do anything to that man, I promise!"
Sobs racked the teenager's body. "I don't want to go to Azkaban, Remus, I don't want to go there. Sirius – Sirius was there for twelve years, and you know I won't last. I can't, when I'm around Dementors. I hear my mum and dad's last moments… I see Cedric die. Oh, God, I'll see Sirius die too…"
The teen sobbed against Remus for what seemed like hours, but was in reality minutes. A knock on the door interrupted the two in their comfort. It opened, revealing two Dementors, Dumbledore, Fudge, and a group of Aurors. Harry shivered, already hearing voices.
"Lily! Take Harry and go! It's him, he's here!"
Shuddering, Harry slowly stood, bracing his hands on Remus's shoulders, as the older man was kneeling on the ground where Harry's chair was. Remus glanced over his shoulder and shot Dumbledore a hard look, but the man didn't do anything. Growling softly under his breath, Remus stood with Harry, and walked with him to the group.
As they stepped out of the room, Remus attached himself to Harry's side and motioned for the Aurors to lead the way out. Confused, but determined, Handler nodded at Kingsley and Tonks, and three others to escort them to the entrance hall, where Handler explained a group of Unspeakables would take Harry to Azkaban.
The two Dementors followed the group, Harry giving them a wary glance as he did so, and caught Fudge's gleeful expression. Horror wrapped itself around Harry's stomach, and he gagged on air.
Remus's hand smoothed down Harry's back, comforting the teenager as he tried to valiantly ignore his mother's screams in his head, that turned into Voldemort's high, cold voice saying, "Kill the spare."
As Harry and Remus and the odd group entered the main hall, Harry saw with a sickened feeling the large amount of press, wizarding society and school friends there.
"Potter! Over here Potter! Is it true, did you kill the Vice-Foreign Minister of France? Was it a conspiracy? Is You-Know-Who involved? Are you abused at home?" questions were flung at him from all sides of the press, but Harry only saw Rita Skeeter, an odd gleam in her eyes as she watched Harry and held his gaze. He continued to look at her while the Aurors in front of him slowly pushed their way through the throng of people.
"Did you do it?" she mouthed to him, her quick-quill hovering over her parchment. Harry shook his head slightly.
"Who?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him. Harry let his eyes glance upwards to his scar, and then flicked his eyes to Fudge. By the speculative shine in her eyes, Harry knew she understood his message. He may not have liked the crap she wrote about him in his fourth year, but she did have a way with words when she helped him with her article about Voldemort's return last year. Pleased that he'll at least get a good laugh, even if he was in Azkaban, had Harry's hopes climb a little higher from the pit of despair they were currently in.
"Steady, Harry," murmured Remus, as Harry stumbled on the back of the Auror in front of him. His arms came around the only remaining living reminder of James, Lily and Sirius that he had. "Are you okay?"
"No," Harry answered truthfully. "You do believe me, don't you?"
"Yes," replied Remus without any hesitation. "I'll find more, Harry, I'll get you out, and I promise it. Marauder's oath."
Harry allowed himself a small smile as his gaze swept over the crowd, picking out people he knew. The noise of people shouting at him, and jeers was reduced to nothing as he saw fellow DA members, schoolmates, and their parents.
Ron looked livid when he caught Harry's eyes, but Ginny had tears and mouthed, "I believe you," when he glanced at her. The twins were grim-faced, but nodded and had a mischievous twinkle in their eyes when they winked at Harry. Molly and Arthur were crying, comforting each other, and didn't see Harry sweep his eyes over them.
Neville was pale, but met his gaze and Harry knew he didn't believe the news; most of his DA that looked at him gave a reassuring nod, but it was a general consent of the populous that seemed to believe the news. Surprisingly, Draco Malfoy held Harry's eye, smirk and sneer gone. His face instead was white and his eyes apologetic. Harry wasn't sure what to make of that.
All too soon, Harry stepped out of the Ministry of Magic and saw with horror five Unspeakables, all wearing blood red robes and a question mark badge on their breasts. Remus swore under his breath and Fudge asked in a jovial voice, "Ready to go to your new home, Potter? Life in Azkaban will be quite an experience!"
Remus and Harry paused in their stride, faltering. Remus turned to Harry and gripped his shoulders. "I can't go with you any further, Harry. I'm sorry… you need to do the rest on your own."
Harry nodded. "I understand, Remus. Don't worry."
Remus's eyes saddened. "How can I not, Harry? James and Lily's son is going to Azkaban, the very hell Sirius was wrongly imprisoned in for twelve years… and now you're going there too, innocent, and wrongfully accused."
Harry shrugged. "That's what you get when you're Harry James Potter." He glanced at Tonks, Kingsley, and then Dumbledore, all who refused to look at him. "Take care of yourself Remus. If you get the chance… send some people to visit. I'll get lonely there." He didn't say mad or insane because he knew that spending time with the Dementors and seeing and hearing the last remaining moments with Sirius, Cedric, and his parents would break him faster than he could even conceive. Add to that the taunting and verbal abuse he received while with the Dursley's would bring old wounds to the surface. He wasn't sure if he was strong like Sirius. Strong enough to survive that little niche of hell that would soon become all he would know.
You have to be strong, Harry, a voice inside him, one eerily sounding like Sirius, said. You need to survive. Don't let Voldemort and Fudge win. Beat them at their own machinations.
Harry, with a new feeling of resignation, sighed and clasped Remus to him tightly. "I'll be okay. Just find a way to get me out of there, soon. Take care of yourself, Remus."
Then, Harry left Remus's comforting embrace, gave a small, sad smile to the last, true Marauder, and gave a jaunty little wave, catching Hermione Granger's eye as she, and a few others came to watch him be taken away. She wiped her eyes and smiled at him, her eyes telling him all he needed to know.
He'd be okay.
With that, he turned to face the Unspeakables, and lifted his chin. He squared his shoulders and said, "Let's go."
Harry sat at the stern of the dingy that had been magically rowing itself from the mainland to Azkaban Island. There were two Unspeakables with Harry in the small boat, both silent and stony eyed. Harry tried to chat to them about Quidditch, but they seemed to ignore him, and so after a couple minutes, Harry ignored them too.
After all, he surmised, he should get used to being ignored in Azkaban. He'd be ignored, left alone to his own devices in his own cell, listening to the other occupants as they screamed and drooled and frothed at the mouth and went insane.
Azkaban was a fortress. It wasn't a castle, or a square building that looked like a correctional center on the telly, but a giant gray building with pointy turrets, high gray walls and slivers of holes in the wall that served as an air vent and window. Harry wondered how Sirius survived.
At least he was an animagus. You're not even that. How will you live there? He wondered, biting his lip. Worry and horror crept up on him again as he finally understood what he'd be facing. He'd be spending the rest of his days in a small, damp, dark and gray six by three cell.
Anguish at being treated like a criminal because of his name, Harry inwardly wailed and cried at the injustice that was being presented to him. Lost in his wallowing despair, Harry barely felt the boat hit the dock of Azkaban Island. He did, however, feel the cold seep into his bones, and the voices of his parents and others in his head. Trying his hardest to remain conscious, Harry forced his mind to place a block between himself and the Dementors that were slowly coming out of the fortress. They near floated above the damp grass, their rasping and rattling drowned out by the crash of waves hitting the sharp rocks that were situated around the gloomy island.
"Harry Potter, your newest inmate," one of the Unspeakables finally said. Harry sneered and backed away from the Unspeakables and Dementors. When the two Unspeakables moved in on him, he lashed out with a fist in a move he saw Dudley do when boxing; the Unspeakable it went after however, caught his fist and squeezed, while the other punched Harry in the stomach. Collapsing to the ground, Harry clutched his stomach in pain and wheezed slightly, watching two polished shoes come toward him. He let the hand not clutching his stomach gather some sand on the rocky beach and waited. In a baited breath, he saw the two feet come close enough for Harry to stand and throw the sand and rocks at the man's face.
He was startled and backed away with a strangled, "Arrgh!" sound, before the second Unspeakable who caught Harry's fist stepped forward and knocked Harry down to the ground again with two punches to his temple. With spots and colours swirling in front of Harry's vision, he knew that he wouldn't be able to escape now.
He bowed his head and allowed the two to lead him through the Dementors, all who tried to be close to him, wanting to feed off his anger and emotions, and went into the building.
Harry was immediately struck at how gothic it was, when he entered. Tall, with wood beams criss-crossing and wrought iron gates separated the cells from the entrance hall. Floating candles were scattered around the entrance, more near a solitary desk where one man with greasy hair tied into a ponytail sat. He waved the Dementors away, all who disappeared into the surrounding darkness.
"Mr. Potter," he man said. "Welcome to Azkaban Prison. Let's see your quarters, shall we?"
He dismissed the two Unspeakables, who left in a hurry, and Harry, having no choice, followed the man.
"Your name, sir?" Harry ventured to ask.
The man's eyebrows rose as he glanced over his shoulder, his waistcoat's tails flapping in the air. "It's Kilbourne, Mr. Potter."
Harry nodded, looking left and right into various cells, hoping to recognized a Death Eater face, or someone who was still slightly sane. He saw none.
Kilbourne stopped on the third floor, after winding Harry through dark passages and creaky stairs.
"This is your cell, Mr. Potter," Kilbourne stated, swinging open the bars of the cell. Harry caught the number: 358. Sirius had been in this cell before, Harry realized with a start. He had remembered hearing an off remark about it.
"Thank you," Harry murmured, surprising himself and Kilbourne. He suspected that most people were brought in kicking and screaming, or stunned, not politely.
Kilbourne nodded, and Harry entered, looking around the dark cell. He sighed and sat on the rock bench attached to the left side of the cell and placed his elbows on his knees as he cradled and his. Then, he wept.
"Happy birthday to me," he said in a wobbly voice when he finished crying, and fell into a deep, troubled sleep.
AN2: May.10.04 Thanks to those who caught the mistakes! I totally appreciate all you've done for BSI! Secondly, please give this story a chance. If you think that Dumbledore wouldn't believe Harry… then think back: He didn't believe Sirius either, who went to Azkaban without a trial – because Dumbledore is merely human and can't read minds. He can only respond to scenarios that he has sufficient knowledge about. So, read the next chapter and then tell me what you think – but give it a try!
AN: chapter revision Oct.03.06