Disclaimer: I own nothing and this is not for profit.

Summary: What has twelve years in Azkaban done to our favorite wizard? Kinda xover w/ "The Dark Knight." Canon till beginning of OoTP. Rating for violence. Dark!Harry, Evil!Harry. You knew someone was going to do this eventually…

Prologue: Smile…

"Not to sound disrespectful, sir, but are you absolutely certain he is innocent?"

Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Severus Snape, and Poppy Pomfrey were all standing inside the office of the warden of Azkaban prison. They had arrived only just a half an hour earlier prepared to secure the immediate release of one Harry James Potter who had been an inmate for nearly 12 years.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" snapped Sirius, the rage clearly palpable in his voice.

Dumbledore raised his hand in a calming gesture, "Sirius," he said sharply before turning back to the warden. "Yes, Patrick, we are indeed certain." The haunted look in Dumbledore's eyes spoke volumes more than the strain in his voice.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived had quickly become the Boy-Who-Went-Mad twelve years earlier when it was revealed that he had killed his cousin—Dudley Dursley—in a fit of rage. The evidence was overwhelming…

:Flashback:

Harry was roughly thrown into the center chair of courtroom 10 and quickly chained by the black uniformed aurors. His face was white with panic. How did it come to this?

He looked up at the assembled members of the Wizengamot, Fudge sitting in the Chief Warlock's position in his elevated bench. Harry noted there was an excited gleam in his eyes.

Fudge pounded his gavel. "Witches and wizards of the Wizengamot, this trial of Harry James Potter is now in session, Minister for Magic Cornelius Oswald Fudge presiding…"

"WITNESS FOR THE DEFENSE," boomed a voice from behind Harry, "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore."

Harry looked at his Headmaster with palpable relief and joy. Finally, Dumbledore had come to rescue him from this nightmare.

Fudge shifted nervously and gave a slight, forced smile: "I see you received our notice that the time of the trial had been changed…"

"I must have missed it," Dumbledore quickly interrupted, "but by a happy mistake, I arrived at the Ministry three hours early." Fudge could only glare at him.

"Charges?" Dumbledore asked.

Fudge puffed out his chest at this: "The boy stands accused of murder, the use of an Unforgivable curse, use of magic in the presence of a muggle, and—let's not forget," Fudge smiled slightly, "performing magic while underage."

Mutterings went through the assembled members. The tension in the air was thick. Many sat still astonished that all of this was actually happening. They all had their own opinions about Harry Potter, especially when it came to his claim that Voldemort had returned. But murder? Needless to say, many were just praying that they would soon wake from a bad dream.

"The prosecution would like to call its first witness: Auror John Dawlish," Fudge continued.

Dawlish, who had been sitting in the empty gallery area quickly walked to the witness stand and took his seat.

"Auror Dawlish," Fudge spoke with a false authority in his voice, "raise your wand." Once Dawlish had done so, Fudge continued, "Do you swear upon your magic that the testimony you give before us is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"By my magic, I swear," Dawlish said as a yellow light surrounded him for a moment and then dissipated.

"Auror Dawlish," Fudge's eyes squinted up a bit, "describe to us the conduct of your investigation into the death of one Dudley Dursley."

Dawlish cleared his throat and began: "Our offices were first contacted by our liaison in the Surrey police department about the death. When we arrived at the Dursley residence at Number 4 Privet Drive, we were surprised to find several wizards already on scene, including Aurors Tonks and Shacklebolt as well as ex-Auror Ma… Alastor Moody," Dawlish quickly corrected himself.

"Were any of these individuals there on official Ministry business?" Fudge asked, feigning interest.

"No, sir," continued Dawish. "They claimed to be there on personal business."

"I see," said Fudge knowing full well Dawlish identified several members of Dumbledore's vigilante group. "Continue."

"I tried to question Mr. Potter first as he was the most immediate witness to the death, but Auror Tonks insisted that he needed time to recover from his ordeal. Apparently he was asleep in his room."

"Asleep?" Fudge asked in mock surprise. "Surely one would find it difficult to sleep if one had just witnessed the death of a relative?"

Harry glared at Fudge and made fists with his hands until his knuckles went white. He was hardly asleep. He had passed out from exhaustion after his encounter with the dementors.

Dawlish seemed to ignore Fudge's question. "I proceeded to question the parents of the deceased: Vernon and Petunia Dursley. They were understandably distraught, but they both immediately insisted that Mr. Potter had killed their son…"

"OBJECTION!" Dumbledore interjected. "I hardly find the opinions of Mr. Potter's aunt and uncle as proof of his guilt or innocence."

Fudge shifted in his seat and cocked his head to the side, "Auror Dawlish, did they explain why they felt this way?"

"Yes, sir, they gave accounts of several incidents where Mr. Potter brandished his wand in a threatening manner towards them in anger. They also explained that he had in fact used magic in the past to harm a relative," Dawlish continued.

"Ah, yes," Fudge smirked as he rifled through some papers, "you're referring, of course, to the incident two years ago when Mr. Potter blew up his aunt…"

"OBJECTION!" roared Dumbledore again as shocked cries went through the audience, "Mr. Potter hardly 'blew up' his aunt. I believe inflated may be more appropriate, and the incident was a clear case of accidental magic. His aunt was not physically harmed in any way by the encounter."

"Yes, but it clearly shows a pattern in his temper, does it not Dumbledore?" asked Fudge smugly. A few mutterings of agreement went through the crowd.

"Auror Dawlish," Fudge continued, "were there any muggles present just before the encounter that took Dudley Dursley's life?"

"Yes, sir," Dawlish nodded enthusiastically as if this information would be the most important. "Several of Mr. Dursley's friends witnessed an argument between the deceased and Mr. Potter. Apparently, Mr. Dursley was insulting and taunting the accused…" Dawlish seemed to hesitate.

"Taunting you say," Fudge remarked as if he didn't already know what was to come. "What was the deceased taunting Mr. Potter about?"

"I must admit, Minister, I hesitate to say because the remarks were rather vile," Dawlish said as he sighed, shaking his head in his disbelief. He gave a quick glance with sympathy-filled eyes at Harry. "Apparently, Mr. Dursley was taunting Mr. Potter about the fact that his parents had been killed…that he was an orphan."

A few gasps and cries of outrage resounded through the tremendous courtroom. Over the whispers many people were uttering things such as "Merlin!" and "Why that filthy muggle!"

Harry simply glared at a spot on the floor. He didn't want their sympathy, especially now as they were condemning him. The hypocrisy of the moment was so unbelievable he wanted to pass out.

Fudge wore a well-rehearsed look of shock. "My word, how awful! I must agree that such remarks are quite…disgusting considering the circumstances. Indeed, I think we can all now understand why Mr. Potter was so upset! Mr. Dursley's taunting was clearly inexcusable!"

"Yes, sir," Dawlish nodded his head in agreement.

Fudge tried desperately to hide his smirk before he said, "Then again, hardly worthy of death sentence, no?"

Dawlish seemed to falter for a second before he gave another look of sympathy towards Harry, but this one more resigned. "No, sir."

Once again, the audience of the Wizengamot began their mutterings and whispered arguments and agreements. Many were nodding their heads while others shook them sadly as they stared down at the boy chained to the chair.

"Did the boys tell you anything else about the argument?" Fudge asked as he went in for the kill.

"Yes, sir," Dawlish said as he sat up a little straighter. "The boys told me that after Mr. Dursley insulted Mr. Potter's parents, he lunged at the deceased and pointed what they described as a 'stick' at his throat."

Fudge couldn't fight the smirk any longer. "And that was the last they saw of Dudley Dursley." It wasn't a question.

Dawlish swallowed, "Yes, sir."

The silence in the Wizengamot was deafening.

"I have some questions for this witness, if I might?" Dumbledore said as he walked forward.

Fudge grimaced. "You may proceed."

"Auror Dawlish," Dumbledore began, "did the boys see Mr. Potter actually murder Dudley Dursley? Did they see Mr. Potter cast the Killing Curse? Did they see young Mr. Dursley die?"

Dawlish shifted in his seat. The sight of his old Headmaster still intimidated him. "N-no, sir. They said they ran home quickly after Mr. Potter took out his 'stick.'"

"Curious," said Dumbledore as he began pacing, "I wonder, Auror Dawlish, did they say why they felt the need to flee the scene in such a state? After all, it was only a 'stick.'" This got some chuckles from the gallery.

"Yes, sir, they said…Well, sir, they were a little confusing. They said they just got this bad feeling and knew they had to leave. The one specifically stated that he was overcome with a profound sense of depression." More murmurs.

"I see," Dumbledore said pacing. "Would their description of this event match what one would expect to hear if a muggle encountered a dementor?" Several soft gasps and whispers.

"Oh please, Dumbledore!" Fudge interjected. "Dementors in Little Whinging happening upon the one wizard that lives in the area? The odds are astronomical!" Nods and mutterings of agreement.

"Auror Dawlish," Dumbledore continued as if he hadn't heard Fudge, "did you perform the priori incantatem spell on Mr. Potter's wand?"

"Y-yes, sir, of course," Dawlish sat once again shifting in his seat.

"Did it reveal the Avada Kedavra curse? Did a ghostly form of one Mr. Dursley appear before you?" Dumbledore asked without even looking at Dawlish.

"No, sir. The last spell cast by Mr. Potter's wand was the Patronus charm." Many wide-eyes turned on Harry. That was an impressive piece of magic for a soon-to-be fifth year.

"The Patronus charm, you say. Fascinating…Remind me, Auror Dawlish, can the Patronus charm kill?" asked Dumbledore, noting several smirks in the audience.

"That proves nothing, Dumbledore," Fudge started. "Potter could have easily cast that charm after killing the boy. It in no way proves the presence of dementors. In fact, Auror Dawlish, do you know of any other uses of the Patronus charm other than as a defense against dementors?"

"Yes, sir," Dawlish said as his eyes narrowed in concentration, "the Patronus charm can be used to send emergency messages. It's a technique often used by aurors."

"And did you not just testify that when you reached the Dursley residence several aurors were already present? Doesn't it make sense that Mr. Potter used his Patronus to contact them in an attempt to cover up his crime?" Fudge continued, his voice getting louder and faster as he pounded his point home.

"OBJECTION!" Dumbledore now seemed furious. "Conjecture will not help us understand what really happened that night, Cornelius!"

Fudge slammed the gavel down so hard he almost broke it, "YOU WILL ADDRESS THE BENCH WITH THE PROPER DECORUM, ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, OR YOU WILL PLACED IN CONTEMPT!" Both men seemed to deepen their glares.

Harry was starting to panic. All of this was too neatly packaged, everything was too perfect. Motive, means, opportunity, AND an attempt to cover up his crime? It was all coming across as the perfect frame-up job. Still, part of him was convinced he wouldn't be convicted. He was innocent! And unlike Sirius, he was getting his trial. Everything would be cleared up soon enough. He had faith in Dumbledore. He tried desperately to wipe the sweat-drenched locks of black hair out of his eyes but the chains kept his arms firmly in place.

"Furthermore," Fudge continued, ignoring Dumbledore again, "speaking as a representative of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Auror Dawlish, have there been any reports of any accidents or mistakes at Azkaban prison that would indicate the loss of control of any of our dementors?"

Before Dawlish could answer, Dumbledore broke in, "No one here is suggesting that the dementors that attacked Mr. Potter and Mr. Dursley were there by accident, Minister."

An exaggerated "ahem-ahem" came from somewhere to Harry's left. He looked over to see a grotesque, toad-faced woman with a patronizing smile plastered over her face. "Forgive me, surely I must have misheard, for it seemed as if you are implying that someone from the Ministry ordered this attack?"

Dolores Umbridge wanted to immediately sow the seeds of doubt in such a line of inquiry. She knew her involvement could be exposed quickly enough if someone looked into it. Luckily, Dumbledore obliged her.

"I seriously doubt anyone in the Ministry would be shrewd enough to order such an attack, madam. However," Dumbledore immediately turned his eyes on Fudge, "there is someone with the motive and means to do so…"

Dumbledore quickly walked up close to the high bench, "Cornelius, I implore you to see reason, this attack is just one more piece of evidence…"

"ENOUGH!" Fudge cut him off and then hissed in a low voice, "He is not back!"

Dumbledore sighed and let his head drop. Evidently, today would not be the day the world learned of Voldemort's return. Unless…

"In the matter of Harry Potter," Dumbledore began in a loud and authoritative voice, "I'm afraid the defense must insist on an interrogation under Veritaserum!" Gasps and mutterings immediately broke out again.

"The use of Veritaserum on a minor is forbidden, Dumbledore! Surely you must know that!" Fudge spluttered in indignation. "It was you, after all, that created this law!"

"The forced use of Veritaserum is forbidden, Minister. However, the accused may freely request the use of the truth serum!" Dumbledore quickly looked to Harry who had a look of absolute joy on his face.

"Yes! Yes, of course I'll take it!" Harry was nearly jumping out of his seat.

Fudge was getting nervous. He stole a quick glance around and saw nodding heads and whispers of affirmation. One witch even went so far as to say, "Finally!" as she rolled her eyes and threw her head back. Everyone seemed to be leaning in. A great many questions were about to be answered.

"N-now see here, Dumbledore…" Fudge started.

"Auror Dawlish!" Dumbledore was now almost in a frenzy. "As an auror, you carry a vial of Veritaserum with you at all times, correct?"

Dawlish's eyes were wide with excitement, things were getting interesting. "Yes, sir, I have it right here!"

Dumbledore's brain was working overtime. It was perfect! Harry could prove his innocence, show the true, untrustworthy nature of the dementors, and prove the return of the Dark Lord all at once! Somehow he knew that this trial would be the turn of the tide in the war against the forces of darkness. Little did he know how right he was…

"Auror Dawlish, please administer the Veritaserum to the accused," Dumbledore ordered as he made a wide sweeping motion with his arm pointing towards Harry.

Dawlish jumped out of his seat and quickly advanced on Harry. Everyone in courtroom 10 was practically gagging to know the truth. Too many insinuations had been made. To many lives were a stake. What the hell was going on?!

Harry waited expectantly for Dawlish. He even had his mouth open and his tongue hanging out. Harry stole two quick glances at Fudge, who was red with anger and spluttering unintelligible nonsense, and another at the disgusting toad-woman, who he was startled to see seemed to have gone deathly pale with fear.

Everything is going to be fine! Harry thought, Dumbledore fixed it! Everything is going to be…

Just before the first drop of Veritaserum touched his lips, Harry's mind imploded. His scar seemed to envelope him. Voldemort had pushed through at full force. He had been quietly observing the proceedings unbeknownst to Harry who was too frightened and nervous to note the foreign presence in his mind. He waited for the perfect opportunity to strike. If he couldn't destroy the great Boy-Who-Lived, he would just have to let the Wizarding World do it for him.

Harry's eyes glazed over unnaturally under the effects of the possession, but everyone in attendance assumed it to be confirmation that the truth serum had taken effect. At this moment, Harry Potter could tell no lies. The same could not be said for one Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"Mr. Potter," Dumbledore began puffing out his chest, "did you kill Dudley Dursley?"

Dumbledore felt the world swept out from under him as Harry replied, "Yes."

Several screamed, but most were simply stunned speechless. Even Fudge's jaw had dropped to the floor. Even he didn't really believe Harry had killed the boy. He had called the trial as a way of discrediting him and Dumbledore as much as possible. But now, having the Boy-Who-Lived freely confess to murder…How had it come to this?

Dumbledore's face showed more shock, pain, and confusion than it had in nearly one hundred and fifty years. Something was wrong. Something had to be amiss.

"H-how did you kill him?" Dumbledore asked, hoping Harry would give an answer that would imply that he felt responsible for his death, but was not actually the cause. After all, Harry had blamed himself for the death of Cedric Diggory as well. Alas, it was not to be.

"The Killing Curse," Harry replied simply. His face showed no emotion, which was difficult for Voldemort to control as on the inside he was flooded with amusement and joy.

Dumbledore nearly fell over in shock. His legs were very weak. The horror dancing in his brilliant blue eyes was evident for all to see. Tears began to wet his cheeks. He brought his hand up to his mouth to stifle a sob he had to fight back. He kept shaking his head, as if willing the moment to be a dream. He looked back to Harry and asked in a low and hoarse voice, "Why, Harry? Why did you kill him?"

Harry responded immediately, "I hated him. He beat me and called me a 'freak.' He insulted my parents. I hate all the Dursleys. I wish they were all dead. I'm glad he's dead."

Dumbledore really did fall to the floor this time. The denial that had been racing through his head a moment ago was shattered by one thought running on a continuous loop: It's my fault! It's my fault! It's my fault!... He had left him in that house. He left him there knowing full well his life would not be an easy one. He had never expected this. Their constant emotional and physical abuse had driven him to murder, and Dumbledore had put the weapon in his hands. He couldn't help but remember another little boy that he had "rescued" from an orphanage so many years ago. By Merlin, he had done it again.

Dawlish, too, stood shocked at the revelation, but he wasn't an auror for nothing. Guilty people didn't request Veritaserum. Even though he wasn't supposed to even ask questions, he immediately shot out, "If you really killed him, why did you request the use of Veritaserum?"

Dumbledore's eyes widened in realization. He looked up at Harry with hope only to find what appeared to be a flash of annoyance pass over his eyes. Voldemort had anticipated this question.

"I thought I could resist it. I resisted the Imperious curse last year. I thought it might work the same way," Harry explained in a monotonous tone.

The courtroom was virtually silent. A few members of the assembled Wizengamot silently cried while others could barely move from shock. One or two looked upon Harry in fear. Many, however, displayed faces which betrayed a deep sense of pity mixed with anger. They looked at the Boy-Who-Lived for what he was: a disappointment.

Dumbledore had been in more than a few losing battles over the years. He knew the light had suffered its worst blow today than at any other time the history of the war against Voldemort. But like any good general, he knew how to snag the small victories from the jaws of defeat. "Has Voldemort returned?" he asked before Fudge could realize what he was doing. Shocked yelps and winces broke through the crowd.

Voldemort knew this question was coming, and he had debated long a hard about how he would answer. He knew that if "Harry" denied Voldemort's return, he could destroy Dumbledore's reputation and would save Fudge. However, he also knew that if "Harry" denied Voldemort's return, too many people would know that he was actively lying under the effects of Veritaserum. Dumbledore would stop at nothing to save Harry and prove his innocence. He decided to grant Dumbledore this small, short term victory knowing full well it would cost the senile old man the war.

"Yes, Voldemort has returned," "Harry" reported monotonously. "He killed Cedric Diggory and tortured me. I ran from him in fear."

Years later, Dumbledore would question why Harry had confessed to "running in fear" rather than "escaping" from the clutches of Voldemort, but he was still too distraught to think clearly.

Fudge's face was white with terror. Everything had gone wrong. Not only would he be discredited and harassed for denying the truth about Voldemort, but he, along with Dumbledore, would be blamed for allowing the great Boy-Who-Lived to turn dark. Fudge always knew that Dumbledore and his vigilantes formed an effective second front against what he thought of as merely the last of the Death Eaters. Now he realized Voldemort indeed really was back, and he had just crippled his two principle enemies with one blow.

Dumbledore's thoughts reflected Fudge's. Many would vilify Harry and declare that they had always known he would go dark. Others, however, would blame Harry's actions on his "filthy muggle relatives" who abused him and tormented him, forcing him to retaliate against their barbaric methods; a reasoning that would fit well into the ideology of the Dark Lord and his supporters. Still others would fall into despair, fearing that their best hope of defeating You-Know-Who was gone.

Dumbledore, loathe as he was to admit it, fell into this last category.

Voldemort, through the mental link, could sense the effects of the Veritaserum wearing off. As he pulled out of Harry's mind, he couldn't help himself. "Good luck, Harry Potter," he said through the connection.

Harry shook his head and doubled over in pain, vomiting all over himself. Merlin, He thought to himself, is Veritaserum supposed to feel like this? It feels like my brain is on fire! Fuck! Now I know why they don't like to use it on children! Oh well, at least that's over with…

Harry looked up into the tear-filled eyes of Albus Dumbledore. Harry had never seen the Headmaster like this and it scared him to death. What had he said?! Written across Dumbledore's face was a mixture of horror, pain, sadness, and disappointment. He looked as if his heart had been wrenched from his chest.

Harry quickly looked at the assembled members of the Wizengamot and saw with eyes ever-widening in terror similar expressions. He looked at Fudge who looked like he was going to be sick. He looked at Dawlish who just look down at his feet, obviously preparing himself for something he didn't want to do. Suddenly Harry realized what was happening and his stomach dropped even further.

"No!" he cried out. "No! This is bullshit!" He began wrestling with the chains. "I didn't do anything WRONG! I didn't kill ANYBODY!" His voice was getting progressively louder. More and more people were turning their heads, refusing to look at the uncomfortable spectacle that was occurring before them. "Get these chains off of me! GET THESE FUCKING THINGS OFF OF ME! AHHHH!!" Harry screamed in frustration and panicked horror.

"HEADMASTER!" Harry's emerald green eyes turned to the white-haired wizard that he had always held in such high regard, a desperate, near animalistic plea in his gaze. "HEADMASTER! PLEASE! HELP ME! TELL THEM I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WRONG!!" Harry was sobbing at this point. He hiccupped a few times, his entire body trembling. "Please…"

Icy blue met emerald green as Dumbledore exhaled through his nose and tried to suppress the shudder that shook his body. He had said it too many times, so many times that he was probably sounding like a broken record. He had completely and utterly failed the boy, and this would be the last time he would have to say it. He looked at the boy he had tried to protect with all his might, and condemned him to hell as he said, "I'm sorry, Harry."

Harry felt like he had just been hit with a bludger to his chest. He couldn't breathe. Terror, absolute terror showed in his eyes. It was all over.

Fudge broke the impossible silence, "All in favor of conviction?" His voice shook.

Though many raised reluctantly, every single hand of the Wizengamot was raised. There was no denying Veritaserum.

Harry's sobs affected everyone, even Umbridge. They were so emotional you would have to be lacking a soul not to be affected by them. The assembled members of the Wizengamot sat and did nothing as they witnessed the emotional and mental breakdown of a 15 year-old boy. But the worst was yet to come.

Fudge had to read verbatim from the procedures book in front of him in order to get through the rest of the proceedings. He dared not look up. "Harry Potter, you stand before the Wizengamot convicted of murder and the use of an Unforgivable curse." No one cared about his other crimes. "As such, you will be taken from this courtroom to Azkaban prison where you will spend the rest of your natural life." Fudge fumbled for his gavel. "Aurors, do your duty." The sound of the gavel made several witches and wizards in attendance jump in fright.

This can't be happening! THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING! Harry screamed in his own mind. He desperately looked for Dumbledore only to see the elderly wizard already heading for the exit. Two black uniformed aurors approached him.

"No! NO! GET THE FUCK OFF ME! I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!" Harry's voice was a mix of rage and terror. "LET GO OF ME! LET GOOOO!! PLEASE!! PLEASE!!"

Harry's emotional hysterics were silenced as one of the aurors hit him with a stunner. They immediately bound his hands and slowly carried him to the room in the back of the courtroom that contained the portkey that would take them to the dock of the Azkaban ferry.

Few would see Harry Potter again for the next twelve years.

:End Flashback:

"I didn't mean to offend anyone, sir," Patrick said, a genuine look of concern on his face. "It's just that…" he hesitated here. "Well, I suppose you'll just have to see for yourselves."

Patrick slowly stood from his desk and picked up the massive, antiquated key chain that lay in front of him. He then took out his wand and performed the Patronus charm as if it were as simple as snapping your fingers. Being the warden of the most dementor infested place in the world for almost 11 years had some benefits.

Patrick's patronus, a sheep, stood before the assembled group of wizards and witch before he slowly led them out the side door of the warden's office into the main prison. Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes, flashed in and immediately perched himself on the Headmaster's shoulder, a soft song coming from him. Dumbledore looked up at him in appreciation.

Poppy Pomfrey had been wringing her hands ever since she had stepped off the ferry onto Azkaban prison. She had treated Harry enough times to know that the boy—well, now man she supposed—knew better than anyone how to destroy his body. Before she could burst in anticipation, she blurted out, "How is he?"

Patrick Boyle stopped dead in his tracks, the keys to the prison gripped tightly in his fingers. He slowly let out a breath and turned back to look at the assembled group. To make the moment even more poignant, a distant howl could be heard from inside the prison.

"I suppose this won't be as simple as a quick 'ta-da,'" he said with no trace of humor in his voice. "Perhaps I should explain while we walk."

Many of the party who already looked worried seemed to panic now. Sirius couldn't stop running his hands through his hair or scratching just behind his ear. Remus joined Pomfrey in a fierce wringing of the hands contest. Dumbledore seemed to stare off into space at random intervals. Snape tried his best to show a face of disconcern, but even his eyes narrowed at this.

"As some of you might know, I became warden here after the 1996 breakout," Patrick began as he rounded a corner and began to descend down a winding set of stairs.

Sirius' eyes darkened at this. His cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, had wreaked havoc after that particular breakout.

"I came in with a program of reform and renewal. I guess you could say I got tired of people leaving this place in worse shape than when they came in," Patrick continued focusing on his sheep patronus as it guided them down the stairs.

Patrick sighed, "Prisoner seven-thirteen—Harry Potter—the Boy-Who-Went-Mad," Patrick said almost regretfully. "There had already been 7 attempts but the time I took over."

"Harry tried to escape?" Sirius yelped in surprise. He wondered if his own escape had inspired Harry.

Patrick looked around uncomfortable, "I guess you could say that."

No one needed further explanation.

"I was told the first few times he had tried to use the linens from his bed or his clothes to try and make a suitable noose. It was after his six month here that he smashed his glasses…"

Patrick's words weren't completely registering with the group. Tears began to flow quickly along with a few choked back sobs.

"Every time he did it we would sweep his cell to make sure we got the last of the pieces of glass, but somehow he always managed to hide some small bit…"

Fawkes' song was helping some, but the overwhelming sense of regret and pain that overcame Dumbledore grew to be too much, and he began to silently weep as well.

"We nearly lost him a couple of times. I'll tell you, our resident Healer is now an expert on stopping arterial bleeding. I know you're not supposed to scar from these treatments, but there were just too many cuts…"

Poppy for one was feeling faint. Images of Harry using the tiniest piece of glass to slash repeatedly at his skin just to get at an artery swam through her mind.

"We knew the dementors," the emphasis Patrick placed on the word indicated just what he thought of the creatures, "had a pretty bad effect on the kid, but they were the only ones capable of watching him all the time," Patrick let out a big breath he and spoke next with difficulty. "It got to the point where we had to station one outside of his cell."

Sirius lost it at this point. He grabbed the back of Patrick's collar and threw him against the stone wall of the stairs. "What the fuck is the MATTER with you?!"

Patrick sensed this was coming, but was prepared to defend himself, "Hey, I may not like the fucking things either, but they saved that kid's life more times than I care to admit!" He looked down as he murmured, "Hell, I think they actually like him now…"

Dumbledore snapped his head up and looked sharply at Patrick, "What was that, Mr. Boyle?"

Sirius slowly let Patrick go and lowered his eyes in regret at his outburst. Patrick straightened out his robes and turned to Dumbledore. "Listen," he stopped as he seemed to draw strength enough to say what needed to be said, "the hardest thing I've ever had to deal with in this place is watching this kid self-destruct. I've been here long enough to know that in those first four years no one has suffered as much pain, misery, and loss as Harry James Potter."

The obvious question hung in the air and Snape seemed to jump on it like a predator. "Those first four years?" he questioned in his usual drawl.

Patrick made an effort to look each and everyone of them in the eyes before he looked down at the ground. "Something changed…"

A tremendous sense of foreboding suddenly replaced the sorrow and horror many in the group were experiencing. What had changed? What happened?

Patrick let out another big breath and began to explain: "Like I said before, I'm trying to fix this place. I'm a muggleborn, so I know a little something about how the conditions of a prison reflect on the society that built it." Patrick looked around to see some confused faces and some that seemed to suggest they were considering his statement. He sighed, Doesn't anyone read Dostoevsky in the Wizarding World?

"I brought in a couple of mind healers from St. Mungo's and I instituted a couple of new policies and directives…"

Patrick was interrupted by Pomfrey, "I read about this, something about giving the inmates a healthy outlet for expressing their feelings of guilt and pain." She seemed eager to enter into a professional conversation, perhaps hoping to alleviate the tension and suspense.

"That's right," Patrick nodded, ignoring the interruption, "we distribute journals and encourage inmates to do arts of crafts…"

This time Patrick was interrupted by a snort from both Snape and Sirius. The two glared at each other, regretting immediately the fact that they had agreed with each other on something.

Patrick glared right back at both of them, "Most of these inmates will go insane in less than a few years thanks to the effects of the dementors. Letting them express their feelings in some way, sharing them with someone is the only thing keeping their own memories from eating them alive!"

Sirius rolled his eyes at this, "Not to rain on your fireworks," the muggleborn resisted the urge to laugh, "but I spent twelve years in this place and I never felt the need to—ah—'share' my feelings with anyone," Sirius said sarcastically as he made quotation marks in the air.

Patrick simply smirked at this, "If I'm not mistaken, Mr. Black, a certain dog spent more time here than you did, so I hardly think you're in a position to comment on what the ordinary witch or wizard goes through when they come here."

The story of Sirius' prison stint had become mainstream news after the capture and imprisonment of Peter Pettigrew three years ago. Sirius seemed to accept Patrick's words and nodded his head in a silent apology, wordlessly asking him to continue as well.

Patrick looked back to Pomfrey, "We tried to get Pris…Mr. Potter to take up the practice as well," Patrick's voice rose a bit and he thrust his arms out in a positive gesture. "Initially we were encouraged. Our Mind Healer at the time, Madam Wood, noted that he began to write extensively in his journals and even sketched a few drawings as well…" Patrick hesitated again. "It seemed to help him deal with the dementors better, but…" more hesitation, "he began to describe these visions he had…These…horrible visions…."

Dumbledore's eyes widened in horror. It's as I feared…

Patrick stared down at his hands that seemed to be wrestling with each other, "We would hear him at night…screaming…saying crazy things," his voice was getting quieter and quieter. "I swear, you would have thought You-Know-Who himself was in the room with him…"

Slow realization began to dawn on the others. Dumbledore had told them how he suspected Voldemort had forced Harry to confess at his trial by forcing himself into Harry's mind. He told them he was reasonably certain that the powerful wards of Azkaban had probably kept Harry's mind from the torment and torture of Voldemort's mental link. He was wrong.

Patrick began walking down the stairs again, a fierce look of determination on his face. He knew that if he allowed himself to, he would have stayed on those stairs forever rather than descend any further. But this was his job. This was his duty. He hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor for nothing.

"The journals started describing...awful things, things we knew Harry had never done…yet he seemed to be confessing them willingly, almost in earnest," Patrick stole a look at his sheep Patronus, an enchanted representation of the memory of his newborn baby daughter gripping his finger with her whole hand. He smiled slightly, gathering the strength to continue.

"The paintings were worse…" he shivered as some of the images came back to him. "I see them in my nightmares sometimes." Patrick stopped here and quickly retrieved the trusty flask he kept just inside his robes. He took a long swig and gave a forced half-smile. "I'm not ashamed to say that Madam Wood and I finished off our fair share of Firewhiskey after a session with seven-thirteen." No one corrected his reference.

Dumbledore's mind was racing. Merlin, imagine what we could have done with that informa…but he had to stop himself as he recoiled at the horror of his own thoughts. How could possibly think to exploit this condition? It was awful enough what he forced Severus to endure, he understood this to be on a different level of endurance.

Sirius and Remus meanwhile were giving each other looks that spoke volumes. Sirius was Harry's godfather. James and Lily gave this responsibility to him. They trusted him. They trusted him to keep Harry safe. They trusted him to see him grow up happy. They trusted him…Sirius looked at Remus with eyes that said one thing: I failed.

Remus, always the most rational of Marauders looked back at his friend with eyes not much different: We both did.

Snape saw this silent exchange and immediately tried to smash the feelings it invoked in him. Sympathy? Jealousy? These were Marauders, damnit! The bane of his existence! Yet, the hole that had been in his heart for the last thirty years seemed to widen a bit just then. It widened because he had come short when it came to his life debt to James Potter. It widened because he had failed Dumbledore and the second chance he had given him. But most of all, it widened because he had failed Lily—the girl whose eyes would soon stair back at him from the inmate they would soon release. The lump in Snape's throat challenged even him.

Patrick had continued to talk throughout these thoughts of his guests, describing ways he and Madam Wood had worked to resolve Harry's mental breakdown; everything from potions to low level hypno-legillimency (abandoned after one session by Madam Wood who now sported splotches of white hairs).

Patrick stopped as he passed a torch he knew all too well. The torch that signaled that had reached the maximum security wing: six dementors on guard at all times. He turned his back on the gate that blocked entrance into this wing.

"Eight years ago…" he started but stopped. It was obvious he was struggling with how to explain this. "When…" he cleared his throat, "When I met H-Harry," it was difficult for him to say that name, "he was just a boy. A fifteen year-old boy whose eyes carried every awful emotion you can imagine…" Patrick stole another swig from his flask and seemed to steel himself.

"That boy…is gone," he said simply enough. All eyes looked upon him with confusion, worry, doubt, and fear.

"It was October 31st, 1999," another swig, "and we knew the significance of the date—hell, how couldn't we?" his laugh came out more as a yelp.

"Wood and I had started a tradition where we would spend the night with sev…" he stopped and closed his eyes, "…Harry…on Halloween…" Patrick's eyes darted all over the floors of the corridor and raised up and focused on the torch. The torch he would always gaze at before he would open this door.

Focusing on the magical flame, he continued, "I used to just keep a hand," he extended his hand out as if Harry was actually there, "on his shoulder as he wept sometimes…Wood would change out the bandage over his…" he swallowed, "sc-scar every so often…I've never seen someone in so much pain…" the haunted look on his face said more than the words he spoke.

"That night, though," he raised his hands and gripped the back of his neck, "everything changed…" for the first time since they had met Patrick Boyle, the assembled group noticed tears in his eyes. "I can still hear it…I've had 11 years worth of screaming, but I can still hear it…" he hands traveled from his neck to his ears, "he was…he was laughing…cackling…" he was trembling.

The assembled group fought to turn their horrified expressions into something resembling sympathy for the man that was quickly disintegrating in front of them.

Patrick wiped away some of the tears and the snot that was coming out of his nose, "By the time we got there…the damage…was too far gone…"

Even Snape's mask of indifference was almost completely gone now as he witnessed the warden of Azkaban prison weeping.

"Merlin, I've seen a lot of stuff in my day, but this…" Patrick's hands were shaking so badly that the flask rattled loudly in the echoes of the corridor. He had to completely upturn it once or twice to confirm that it was empty. His hands were shaking too much to screw the cap back on so he simply threw it aside.

Patrick bent down and concentrated hard on his Patronus, the sheep seemed to try to nuzzle him. He sniffed again and stood, "He had mutilated his face…"

The group gasped or cried out in unison. Fawkes' song could do nothing for it. Dumbledore had to brace himself against the wall. What have we done…?

Patrick's tone had become low and near monotonous, "We think he did it with his fingernails and teeth…clawing and biting at the same time…there was so much blood…his skin was so pale…his eyes were so dark…" Patrick tried to stop it but he couldn't help it. He ran to a corner and he vomited.

Even Snape's mouth hung open now. Tears brimming his wide, horror filled eyes.

Patrick spit once or twice and closed his eyes. He needed absolute blackness to continue. "We came into his cell…he turned to look at us…still laughing…eyes wide with hysteria…" he paused here and dry heaved a little, "his jaw was hanging down low…too low…he had torn out his cheeks…"

Sirius collapsed on the floor and Remus quickly joined him, trying to prop themselves against a wall as they wept and sobbed. Pomfrey looked to be in shock. Snape tried to close his eyes trying to will the image from his mind, his tears betraying him. Dumbledore tried to stand tall, tried to muster his strength, but the lack of twinkle in his eyes told everyone all they needed to know.

Patrick stood again, taking deep breaths, "Wood, of course, did everything she could to heal him, but too much tissue was…missing…" No one wanted him to elaborate. "He has scars…terrible scars…"

Patrick walked over and gripped the bars of the gate to the maximum security wing. "Everything changed after that night," he said, his voice becoming stronger. "He changed. His journal entries…well, one could hardly describe them as journal entries anymore…" Patrick pressed his head against the bars, "He started painting these…masks he made out of paper mache…he wears them all the time…he hums…"

More and more of Patrick Boyle—the warden of Azkaban—was coming back. He stood taller, authoritative. He turned to the group, "Seven-thirteen…Harry…shows no remorse for any crimes…real or imagined." There was nothing more to add.

Dumbledore awoke from his quiet misery to question this. "What do you mean?"

Patrick seemed to harden now, his gaze becoming more determined, more resolute, "Whoever you think you're going to meet today, I can guarantee you that you will not recognize him," Patrick tried his best to temper his tone to at least sound sympathetic, but failed. "Seven-thirteen is the most dangerous inmate in this prison." It wasn't an opinion.

Sirius, who had been feeling sorry for Patrick up to this point, lost it at this, "Just open the damn door, you fucking knob!" Tears still stained his face. While the rest of the group seemed a little more hesitant thanks to his words, it was obvious from the expression of their faces that they were eager to see Harry for themselves.

Tears brimmed at Patrick's eyes and his lips trembled, but he still maintained his steely expression. He turned slowly and inserted the key into the gate. He whispered, "I'm sorry," as the locking mechanism echoed through the prison.

The group filed into the hall that constituted the maximum security wing and immediately took note of the multiple dementors that hovered in front of each cell. Dumbledore decided that Patrick's sheep was hardly sufficient against such a large force, so he conjured his own phoenix Patronus to sail above the group as they made their way down to the last cell of the block, a soft song from Fawkes providing even more benefit. Only Snape noticed that the dementor at this end had been positioned in the far corner of the hall, as far away from his charge as possible.

The group reached the last cell and each stole a look inside. Each and every one of them gasped at the sight. Inside this 7x7 foot cell lay a small cot, a lavatory bucket, and a small desk with a stool. At least, that's all it was designed to contain. Prisoner seven-thirteen had added three piles of journals, each 4 ft. high, one wall covered in paper mache masks of different colors, shapes, expressions; one wall of coal drawings of strange shapes and signs; and the wall directly facing the door, directly facing the desk, covered completely by paintings of horrifying scenes…each worse than the next…a face with its eyes wide as the neck sprayed blood…a mouth open in agony as it's surrounded by bright orange and red of flames…Each painting told a story of death, destruction, torture, and mayhem. Their vividness would give even the most seasoned auror chills.

Yet beyond all of these things that this group of wizards and witch observed through the bars of cell seven-thirteen, one thing seized their attention and strangled it. Hunched over the small desk, with only the tiniest of candles to guide his work, was a man some near 30 years of age. By his girth, they judged him to be about 6' or 6'1" in height. He had broad shoulders and a fairly descent build for someone who had been in Azkaban for 12 years. Sirius noted his hair: dark but seemingly slicked through with something. A color he could not yet identify, but hardly the mop of unmanageable hair he was expecting.

Patrick approached the door, trembling uncontrollably, "Seven-thirteen…you have visitors…" his voice trembled.

Before this declaration had been made, this individual had been intensely devoted to his latest painting, so much so he didn't even notice when the main door to the maximum security wing had been opened. Now he stopped mid-stroke and sat up straighter in his stool. He spun slowly, deliberately, and brought his eyes to bear on the assembled group outside his bars.

Sirius brought his hand up to stifle his gasp. He had expected to see Harry's face—James' face—staring back at him when the prisoner turned to face them. What he saw was a red paper mache mask, a mask so rough that the shadow cast over the eyes and mouth betrayed nothing about the face it hid. The rough edges around the eye and mouth holes suggested something animalistic—something feral.

Seven-thirteen looked beyond the bars of his cage to assembled group, he recognized all of them, yet he still cocked his head to the side, analyzing them curiously. What are they doing here? He wondered. I'm hardly finished yet…

Patrick broke through everyone's thoughts with his monotonous, authoritative tone as he read the decree Dumbledore had given him, "Prisoner Seven-Thirteen…Harry Potter…" the man in the paper mache mask squeezed his hand so tightly around the brush he was holding that it snapped immediately, "you are hereby declared innocent of all charges previously brought against you and you are released from Azkaban pri…" Patrick seemed to stumble here, "…prison on your own recognizance." Patrick re-rolled the parchment in his hands, took one look at the red-paper mached face sitting in front of him and ran from the room. Patrick Boyle and his family would never return to Wizarding Britain.

Pomfrey was the first to react. She had been trained to deal with high-stress situations. She ignored the intense drama of the moment and immediately moved on Harry to cast diagnostic spells. She became more and more surprised as each spell returned a color of green aura to her wand. As far as she could determine, from a first-responder perspective, Harry Potter was in perfect condition.

Pomfrey looked back towards Dumbledore, an intense look of concentration on his face as he studied Harry's artwork, "Sir, he seems fine…better than fine, actually…I can't explain it…Mr. Potter seems to be healthier than…"

That was as far as she got before Seven-Thirteen grabbed the small porcelain bowl he used for mixing paints and smashed it against the desk…blood pooling around the designs of the craftsman as he sank his hand down deeper on the irregular edges…

"Thank you, Poppy, that will be fine," Dumbledore said in an attempt to defuse the situation. Harry was obviously angry beyond the point of reason. He would need to approach this cautiously.

Dumbledore walked further into Harry's cell and boldly sat down on the small cot he called his bed. Dumbledore couldn't help but notice the smell in the room. Everything stank of blood. He was surprised by the lack of excrement smell, but even more surprised by the over abundance of the smell of blood. The mattress was saturated with it. Dumbledore began to wonder if this particular mattress had been Harry's mattress since he had arrived at Azkaban.

Dumbledore gazed at the blank paper mache mask that betrayed nothing of Harry Potter whatsoever. He saw nothing of his eyes; he could discern nothing from his lips and mouth. As far as Dumbledore was concerned, the man that sat before him was a ghost.

Yet at the same time everyone in the assembled group could feel the raw power emanating from the masked individual of their focus. Even without seeing his face, both Sirius and Remus knew that the son of James and Lily sat before them. Pomfrey recognized by smell more than anything else the blood of Harry James Potter.

Snape was not so sure. Over the years, he had performed enough passive legillimency on Harry to know how he thought and how he responded to surprises or confrontations…he sensed nothing from this individual.

They all sat in silence for a few moments. All just trying to comprehend the gravity of what was actually happening. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Boy-Who-Went-Mad, and perhaps even the Chosen-One was being released from Azkaban Prison after a 12 year stint. As much as each of the assembled wizards and witch tried to comprehend the importance of what they were about to do, they fell far short of the mark.

Dumbledore, undoubtedly the bravest of the bunch, decided that his duty had come, "Harry, my boy, I cannot begin to express to you how sorry we all are about your unjust imprisonment…" Seven-thirteen stiffened inhumanly at these comments but said nothing.

Dumbledore, seeing little reaction, decided to layer it on, "We've all missed you terribly…your family, your friends; none of us lost hope," even Dumbledore recognized this as a bald-faced lie.

The masked individual sitting before Dumbledore simply cocked his head to other side, a sign of increased curiosity.

Dumbledore decided to go for broke, it was now or never, "Harry, I can never begin to tell you how sorry I am for allowing you to suffer so much…" Dumbledore turned on the waterworks.

To any other witch or wizard, the sight would have broken them.

The masked individual just cocked his head again…

"I believe that whatever doesn't kill you makes you…" the paper mache mask was pulled away, "…stranger…"

Dumbledore, Sirius, Remus, Snape, and Pomfrey looked in horror into the eyes of Prisoner Seven-thirteen…they only showed the darkest of green…nearly black…the skin around the eyes had been crudely painted with black ink…around that caked white paint, cracked and showing scars…the worst was his mouth…blood-red paint highlighted his scarred lips and cheeks…his teeth were yellow…his tongue darted out to lick his lips…he saw the horrified looks of his "rescuers"…he smiled brightly, drawing out the definition of the scars…

Dumbledore's eyes closed…he had never feared an image before today. One thought screamed in his brain: What have I done?

Anyways, tell me what you think. This is my first time out. Flames keep me warm, though.