Fallen Angel

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and as such do not own Harry Potter or any of it's characters. I would have thought this was obvious, but perhaps not.

Spoilers: Every book up to and including HBP.

A/N: Before you start reading, you might want to take into account that this story is a sequel to Fire Burns. It does stand alone but will feature many of the same characters. Fire Burns is in the midst of a re-write and can be found on my author page.

One more thing I must stress though is that this is not a story about Harry Potter, it is simply one in which he features. I am not writing the seventh book; I am just borrowing the timeline & history from books 1-6. Anyone who's read Fire Burns can guess who the main character in this story is.

Anyway, without further ado, on with the story. Hope it lives up to your expectations. :D

Enjoy.


Prologue

An eagle soared through the darkening sky, borne on the gentle summer breeze. Far below, on a remote hill top, three figures were gathered in a graveyard. One, a boy of no more than sixteen, lay motionless on the ground. Another younger boy with a shock of jet black hair stood bound to a gravestone, watching the scene in front of him in horror.

The eagle glided lower…


The last vestiges of sunlight glimmered down onto cold black stones. The dark ocean heaved and swelled, waves breaking relentlessly against the high rocky walls that barred their path. Moans and screams, muffled by hundreds of echoes, could just be heard above the roar and crash of the breakers.

Not even the gulls came out this far; the whole place spoke of pain and despair. You'd have to be mad to go near there.

Of course, stay in there long enough and you'd go mad anyway.

This is Azkaban, worst of all prisons, guarded by the sightless Dementors that leech the happiness out of every living being. Only the really twisted are kept here…

All together.

In the same place.

And someone has yet to spot the major flaw in this.

Prisoners talk...


The cauldron fizzed, sparks crackling over the surface in an explosion of light. The third figure had dropped to the ground sobbing and clutching at its maimed arm.

Suddenly a cloud of white steam burst from the cauldron, completely blotting out the scene below. The boy tied to the gravestone watched in impending dread as, gradually, the steam cleared…


"He'll come for me you know," whispered a voice in the darkness. It sounded dry and hoarse, as though it's owner had long ago lost the habit of using it. "And then they'll be sorry. He'll be back."

Another, deeper voice, laughed hollowly. "Keep telling yourself that Lestrange. One day, we might believe it. He's forgotten about us. You know it and we know it. Stop pretending we'll get out of here alive and let me die in peace."

The person named Lestrange didn't answer but another voice rumbled: "Black managed it."

"Dying?"

"Escaping."

"Dying is an escape," said the deep voice flatly.

"Not that Black. The other one. Riddle's Black."

The cells fell silent again, filled with thousands of unspoken words and a new wave of cold spread over the chambers' occupants. Someone moaned softly, shying away from the inescapable presence of the Dementors.

The Dementor glided past and hovered outside the first speaker's cell, inhaling deeply, every breath rattling ominously. The hunched frame of a woman moved restlessly in the darkness at the very back of the cell and for a moment, dark eyes glinted as a ray of fading sunlight filtered down through the looming walls and impenetrable shadows that plagued Azkaban.

The Dementor drew a long hollow breath…


Gradually the steam cleared and a fourth figure became visible, standing in the cauldron, liquid cascading off him, scarlet eyes burning with power.

Lord Voldemort had risen again.


…and something stirred in the bowels of Azkaban - a mind that had long ago shut itself off from the outside world suddenly burst into life.

In the inky blackness of a long forgotten cell, two dark blue eyes snapped open.

He was back.