Chapter 78 Jury, Execution

Lord Voldermort stood before the ranks of fifteen chosen Death Eaters, with Polyjuice Potion in the flasks upon their hips, Portkey's on lengths of cord worn around their wrists. He gave a mental sigh. The blend of alchemy, and muggle sciences that had made the Effingus possible had been both exacting and temperamental. Indeed, it was only the fact that extensive use had rendered much of it unstable and as such forced this deviation from his original plan. But no matter. He could bolster his ranks by some thousands and eliminate the risk of total exposure. "My Death Eaters, do you know what must be done?"

"Yes my Lord!" Their voices answered him as one.

"Remember, that it is essential that Lucius Malfoy dies before he can testify. Any other members of the Wizengamot, and Potter's Legion who happen to get in your way must die. Remember that you are not to surrender. You are to keep the Aurors distracted and off-balance, which will give the rest of us time to carry out our own stratagems.

"Master," asked the Effingus leading the mission, who bore the face, bearing, and sycophantic manner of Flint Senior, "What do we do if Potter, Fudge, or Dumbledore engage us? Do we kill them?"

"Fudge, you are to leave completely unmolested. He has yet to truly play his part in events. Dumbledore, Potter and any of his ilk you are to eliminate - if possible."The Dark Lord has no doubt that the Efffingus were no match unless they had the advantage of numbers. Twenty Effingus: They would be a hindrance and a pest at best unless the fates were kind enough to grant them a clear shot from behind. "Remember to make your escape when you receive the signal. Fail me in this Flint, and I shall ensure that Death will be the kindest fate imaginable."

"I will not Master. We will prove our worth and dedication to our cause." Voldemort's rictus of a smile contained enough evil to cause a stone to bleed, and enough to make the bowels of the gathered twenty-foot soldiers' spasm in terror.

Harry and the Legion took their seats within the courtroom, one that bore the faint air of intimidation, given that Harry had told the Legionnaires about his own experiences in the very same room. They had front row seats amongst the various spectators and the full Wizengamot, with Dumbledore in his position as Supreme Mugwump. The Minster was amongst the last to take his place.

Albus Dumbledore banged the gavel before him and silence descended across the courtroom, "Good Morning. Today we are gathered for the trial of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. Bring in the defendant!"

A noticeably thin, almost emancipated Lucius Malfoy was brought into the courtroom and placed into the central chair. The chains wrapped around the man's arms and legs, pinning him in place. For those used to the sight of a confident, well dressed, and arrogant in the finest of robes from Twilfit and Tattings, this was a step-down. Though the robes were still recognized as some of the finest money could buy, they were frayed at the edge and stained black. In many ways, Lucius Malfoy looked more like a Dementor than anything else.

"This trial will now commence, in the matter of the Ministry of Magic versus Lucius Malfoy. I am Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, and I will be presiding. Assisting me will be Senior Undersecretary Amos Diggory and Senior Assistant to Minister Reuban Kingston. On behalf of the Ministry of Magic and the people of wizarding Britain, I will lead the prosecution.

"Ladies and Gentleman of the Wizengamot, the defendant is charged with the following: Of being a servant, known as a Death Eater to the self-styled Lord Voldemort, a total of 147 uses of the Unforgivable Curses, attempted murder against Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Colin Creevey, Fred Weasely, George Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Ginerva Weasley, and Fleur Delacour. There are a number of lesser charges and the Ministry will prove all of them."

"Does the defendant wish to enter a plea at this time?"

Gone was the arrogance and sneer, "I am not guilty." It was the hollow voice of a broken man.

"Minister Fudge, you may call your first witness."

"The Ministry calls Harry Potter to the witness chair."

It was knuts to galleons that Harry would be first and came as no surprise as he walked up and took his seat in the witness chair, placing the Wizengamot to his left, and Malfoy Senior some five meters to his right. The palpable aura of rage and hate radiated from Lucius as he registered the name, and face of his son's arch-nemesis. The same arch-nemesis who had crippled his family financially. So much so that Malfoy had no legal representative. Harry had taken the initiative and ensured through liberal "donations" made by Gringotts on his behalf that no lawyer or advocate in the country would even consider acting as the defense counsel for Lucius Malfoy.

"Mr. Potter, will you take a Wizard's Oath to tell the truth?"

"Yes ma'am, I swear such an Oath." The process was quick and a flick of his wand proved that he still had all of his magic.

"Good, please state your full name, age, and place of residence for the record."

"Harry James Potter, I'm sixteen years old, and I reside in… a secure location, under a Fidillius Charm with myself as the Secret Keeper." Granted it was not a lie, but a way of evading telling the truth. Harry could help but think that the Goblins were right: Veritaserum meant you could not lie. Did not mean you could be cunning as a Slytherin in the long grass.

"And you are an emancipated minor, with full adult privileges and responsibilities are you not?"

"Yes ma'am."

"What is your relationship, if any, to the defendant?"

"Blood enemy." The calm matter-of-fact statement seemed to echo around the gallery and the Wizengamot as they took in the full implication of those two words. There were a few questions that were totally trivial in nature, to establish the pattern of contact, or rather a conflict between Harry and Lucius, going back to 1992, the end of his second year, and confrontation over the diary and Dobby.

The questions would go on, confirming the rebirth of Lord Voldemort, they skipped a number of questions by simply using a Pensieve to show the memories of the battle of the Department of Mysteries.

The rest of the trial followed a similar pattern as the few Legionnaires who had fought and survived – Colin Creevy, Luna Lovegood, and Fleur Delacour - answered the questions and had their memories reviewed in turn. The Ministry called forth Mr. Ollivander to confirm that the wand in Ministry custody – Elm and Dragon Heartstring – was indeed the wand of Lucius Malfoy, and a Priori Incantatem revealed an incredible array of curses, both Unforgiveable and undeniably dark. Indeed, several members of the Wizengamot looked rather green or ghostly white. What was not lost on Fudge, or Dumbledore was the way the Legionnaires simply sat there, unmoved by what they saw.

In another part of the Ministry of Magic, the twenty-strong team stepped out a fireplace that had been "accidentally" connected to the Floo that morning, which was left unattended. They bided their time until finally, they received their signal from an ally that Lucius was being moved from his isolated holding cell to the courtroom. The switch was executed flawless and Lucius Malfoy strode into the courtroom with a confident stride with strong even steps as he crossed to the witness chair. He was every inch the proud pureblood that had been wrongfully picked up for questioning, not a man that should have been somewhat on edge, if not slightly unhinged due to a number of months in the care of the Dementors of Azkaban.

"Please state your name, age, and place of residence for the record."

"Lucius Titus Malfoy, age 41, Malfoy Manor in East Cornw..."

Lucius never got a chance to say another word: The doors to the courtroom imploded, sending wooden rubble flying in every direction. There were screams of absolute terror as Lord Voldemort himself strode across the courtroom, surrounded by Death Eaters, half of whom maintained a solid line of shield spells while the rest fired curses and hexes in every direction, forcing everyone to take cover as they indiscriminately blasted, and burned the entire courtroom. Voldemort placed his wand tip six inches from the man's chest cast, "Avada Kedevra!" Lucius Malfoy's head slumped and came to rest on his sternum, dead.

From behind relatively good cover, Harry spared the corpse a few words, "Shit. I was just starting to like him." The Minister had dropped to the floor with a squeak. Dumbledore and several members of the Wizengamot were shielding the others. The initiative clearly rested with the Death Eaters. Harry took one look at the situation and shook his head, "If that's Voldemort, I'm a god damn Death Eater. That's not a yew wand, and Voldemort, the real Voldemort, does not shield."

Harry had seen enough. "My mark: Pattern Shield breaker!" The Death Eaters had been playing fast and loose with powerful spells, meaning that they would tire quickly and would then either regroup behind their shields and then, being the cowards they were, attempt to flee.

It came just as expected: those on the offensive ceased fire and dropped in to cover behind their comrades, most likely taking a moment to recover from their furious assault. It was the only opening that they needed. "Cast!"

The Legionnaires rose and collectively unleashed a spell-chained barrage of their own: Overconfident perhaps, the Death Eaters maintained their shields, and paid for it as a half dozen blasting hexes turned the solid flagstones into a hailstorm of stone shrapnel. Half of the Death Eaters maintaining shields collapsed, screaming in agony as knives of stone cut through the flesh of their legs, and in several cases severed lower limbs as well. The follow-up spread of stunners smashed into the exposed Death Eaters. The barrage rocked "Voldemort" backward, and the entire courtroom let out a gasp of shock as three stunners smashed into him.

It was almost comical as he was knocked to the left, then the right before the final stunner crashed into the snake-like visage of the Dark Lord, spinning him backward head over heels before he landed quite literally on his head with the snap of breaking a bone that rang across the battle zone. Surprisingly too many were caught on the sidelines, the Death Eaters did not surrender, did not stop. If anything, they continued their near relentless assault.

The clean-up took only minutes before the Legionnaires were moving amongst them, removing wands and portkeys, binding those still alive, while the dead received a cutting charm to the neck, ensuring that they would stay that way.

"This… isn't right," muttered Luna, shooting a side-long glance towards Harry.

"Yeah," he replied quietly, wand still raised, "It was… almost too easy."

"They could have fled," added Fleur, "They could have retreated, escaped. There was no one, nothing barring their escape… it was almost as if…"

"Delaying action," breathed Colin.

"Minister!" shouted Harry, "Get a situation report: Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, Azkaban, everywhere! This was…"

A silvery-white shadow passed through the walls and landed next to Kingston, "Azkaban Guards! Dementors have turned! Death Eater assault in progress! Request immediate reinforcements!"

While Effingus Flint and his people were causing mass chaos in the Ministry, in a display of perfect execution of a multi-part operation, Voldemort himself lead the assault of over a hundred of his followers, having arrived by enchanted boat on to the Island of Azkaban. Dark clouds hung heavy over the island, the salt from centuries of sea spray crunched underfoot. Puffs of breath wreathed their faces as they walked, passing within the wards of Azkaban itself, before activating portkeys that took them directly into the warden's office at Azkaban. There they met Deputy Warden Stephan Matthews, who was promptly executed before the alarm could be raised.

From the window of the Wardens office, Voldemort nodded and his lieutenants dispersed, directing his troops to take up positions, while he did what had to be done. But for a moment, he merely stared out across the courtyard towards the reason he had come to Azkaban in the first place.

The wizarding prison was over a thousand years old, and since its construction, the sunlight had never graced the stone, sand, or even the waters that surrounded the island prison. Why exactly the sun had never touched the island, no one really knew. Some said it was a curse cast by witches and wizards fleeing persecution. Some say it was the last act of a desperate enemy about to be overrun. Another rumor stated that it was a failed ritual involving dozens, if not hundreds of Dark wizards and a Dark Lord from a time long forgotten. Some whispered that it was that failed ritual that led to the creation of the Dementors. It certainly helped explain why the Dementors gravitated towards the island prison, and the unfortunate souls trapped within.

The truth was possibly far more malignant: Within the labyrinthine interior of the prison, there were entire areas that had been stripped, rebuilt, reused, and completely forgotten about, and that somewhere within the twisted and cursed bowels of the rock, in the depths of the bedrock, there was a gate to the infernal realms of demons, gods and Merlin alone knew what else.

Popular opinion had long had it that the Dementors were the sole guardians of Azkaban Prison. True enough, but the prison itself was also the responsibility of a fixed garrison of some two hundred hit wizards known as the Azkaban Guard. These men and women oversaw the administration of the prison and those few prisoners not in higher security areas not patrolled by Dementors.

Lord Voldemort waved his wand, blowing out a large portion of the wall and window, sending it crashing into the courtyard below, and leaped from the window. He took flight, fluttering gently towards the Spire tower which dominated the courtyard, and indeed towered over the entire island. It was the highest point on the island.

Warden Eshan Montgomery Jayatilaka, half Indian, half British, former Auror, and Hit Wizard watched the figure floating across open ground. He could clearly recognize it. There was no mistaking the billowing black robes or the snake face of the... thing hovering towards him. Eshan watched the view, which grew bleaker as rolling clouds flitted in some two hundred meters above the ground, turning the normally thick heavy air wintery cold. His eyes traced the outline of the outer walls of the fortress and then came to rest once again upon the figure of Lord Voldemort who had just come to rest upon the outer edge of the catwalk that ran around the outside of the Spire.

Eshan closed his silvery grey eyes and clenched his hands, feeling not for the first time that no matter how realistic his fingers felt, there was no escaping the fact that six of his fingers – three on each hand – were actually not his original fingers. The Death Eaters had tortured him when they had captured him. But he had given them nothing. When they had tortured his wife and daughter, he had given them nothing because he had nothing to give them. He was a Hit Wizard at the time. He only knew his mission. Nothing else. He rolled his shoulders, working wiry muscles in his shoulders and arms loose before cracking his neck. The full cold of the winter wind, the ocean's salty spray, and the encroaching dark clouds hammered at him unmercifully, but the light of the Spire Tower was enough to see what approached.

There was nothing else. He waved his wand, lighting the lamps along the walls. Another wave saw the crackling embers explode with new life, throwing light across the room. But he knew full well he was not going to find any warmth here. He stared into the column that punctured the tower itself. Indeed, the Spire Tower had probably been built around the column. Nobody – not even the Unspeakables knew what it really was, and despite all their theories, they could confirm only two things with any degree of certainty: It was magic solidified, and at least as old as the island itself. Warden Montgomery chuckled in a self-deprecating fashion: He was using it to provide light to greet darkness. He shook his head at the sheer insanity of it all as the air temperature dropped several degrees lower.

"Lord Voldemort."

"Eshan Montgomery," said the Dark Lord of the British Isles, "I am surprised to find you here." A single curse streaked past Eshan's left ear, close enough for him to feel the oily clammy touch of death, and smell the decay inherent to the killing curse.

Eshan did not move, but rather he sighed, "Overconfident?"

"Absolutely certainty," replied the Dark Lord, "There is no need for confidence when one is certain of victory." He was tall, taller than Eshan expected in a simple black robe. His face was more snake-like than human with a flat slit nose, and bloody red eyes. "Confidence implies something remains unknown. I leave absolutely nothing to chance."

"So why not just kill me and have an end to it?" countered Eshan calmly. His mind raced, weighing and discarding numerous potential strategies in the time it takes one to blink. He knew he would be dead in a matter of minutes. But every second he could delay Lord Voldemort here would be a few extra seconds for the rest of his people. There was no doubt about that, but if he could buy the others time, even a few extra seconds. They might be able to organize a defense, and perhaps hold out long enough for reinforcements to come to their rescue. A slim chance, a small hope. It was all he had. Eshan smiled, "After all, you know exactly who I am, Tom."

"It is a shame," said Voldemort, "That we who were once friends during our years at Hogwarts are now standing on opposite sides. And considering that we were once… friends… I have no doubt that you have some questions." Voldemort's explanation was practically a whisper as he slowly began to circle. Eshan did likewise in the opposite direction, "So how does a decorated Auror and Hit Wizard with a reputation as a hunter of Death Eaters, responsible for the deaths of nine of my followers and the capture of two more, wind up working as the Commander of the Azkaban Guards, and Warden of Azkaban?"

Eshan smile was cold, and all teeth, "I did my job then, and I do my job now. When your Death Eaters took my family, and then six of my fingers... Let's just say despite the best that magic can do, holding a wand for long periods of time still hurts." Eshan drew his wand with a slow deliberate movement, "But I doubt that it matters much, given the… evil standing before me."

"There is no such thing. Magic is simply there, power to be taken, and used by those with the strength of will and force of mind to make the word their own. But come now, Eshan, you never answered my question: Why did you come to the place considered by so many to be the very worst in the only world that matters?"

"The Job. Duty. Responsibility. Loyalty. Honour." Said Eshan with a shrug, "I have nothing left. Your Death Eaters took everything from me. No family, no friends. Nothing to lose so what else was I supposed to do?"

The smile made Voldemort's face look slightly more human for a moment, before it expanded into the classic rictus of death, "A fair answer, old friend."

"We have not been friends for years!" spat Eshan, "But, you ask a question, I suppose you could answer one question of my own?" Voldemort nodded ever so slightly, "Why are you here? For the Tower? Like every self-styled Dark Lord before you? I somehow expected something… more original."

"Three questions Eshan," Voldermort said as his rictus seemed to grow wider, "I am not here for the Tower… at least, not in the traditional sense. I am here for the prisoners. The Tower houses the wands of over five thousand prisoners. The Tower is pure magic, and it sustains many of the enchantments that make Azkaban, Azkaban. But it is the wands that hone the magic. The wands belonged to the prisoners, and when I free the prisoners, they convert, or they die. Simple."

"I see," said Eshan as he raised his wand for what he knew was the last time, "That leaves us, with nothing to discuss." He bowed slightly and bit down on the urge to swallow in fear. Voldemort returned the gesture in kind and both men adopted dueling stances.

Twenty-seven seconds later, the tip of the Tower was in ruins, its walls and ceiling blasted apart. The narrow metal platform swayed precariously, its railing had been shattered into over two dozen fragments. One had punched through the back of Eshan's left hand, another had reduced his right knee to a mass of broken bone and blood, two had perforated his stomach and the last to strike had torn through his chest. He choked once as his own blood welled up in his throat, as he stared into the eyes of evil. "Avada Kedevra," said Voldemort softly.

A total of thirty-four seconds had elapsed, and Warden Eshan Montgomery Jayatilaka of Azkaban Prison was dead having done his duty to the last.

The light of the tower fizzled, the stream of light pointing the heavens flickered, and suddenly there were no wards covering the island. From within the thousands of prison cells that were scattered across the island came the cries of thousands of voices, each one reunited with their wand. Doors shattered, stone crumbled, steel melted as the prisoners broke out in what would be forever remembered as the Azkaban Rebellion.

The alarm had gone out, and the Guards rallied across the prison, fighting back to back against Dementors, Death Eaters, and the prisoners. The Death Eaters had been quick to raise their own wards, and every member of the Guard knew, they were as good as dead.

The guards held firm against wave after wave of assaults, but the sheer number of the enemy was beginning to take its toll. They struggled to maintain a cordon around the main prison complex, but there were too many avenues of attack to defend against. Azkaban was lost. The last clear order to come down from the Senior Guard Commander was to regroup at the portside docks and evacuate.

Struggling to coordinate the defense, the Guards could only watch helplessly as position after the position was overrun until they were literally fighting their way around the prison in groups ranging from two or three to as many as a dozen. On more than one occasion, different groups of retreating Azkaban Guard would bump into each other, turn, stand their group and fight to the last. More than one of the valiant defenders opted to shatter their own magical core, their own flesh burning away as raw magic leaped about, incinerating their foes with waves of raw magic.

Guard Jan Stratus spun low beneath a cutting curse and fired back, "Iugolus Patronum!" The beam of light speared an already wounded Dementor and the demonic creature imploded. She ran forward, six others behind her and they emerged into the main courtyard into a scene of chaos: Dozens of bodies littered the ground. Some kissed, mostly obliterated by spellfire. Some twenty or thirty guards held the center courtyard, a mixed array of shields, patroni, and conjured hardcover their only protection. Jan looked up, and from the top of the broken Tower, she could see him. Lord Voldemort, merely content to watch the ongoing bloodshed.

"Jan!" shouted another guard, "Status?"

"We're it," she replied. "They own the entire prison complex. But we did leave a few surprises." Distant explosions rang out, "Might buy us a little time."

"Then that's all of us," replied Alexander Goodson, "Seventy against five thousand." The air grew colder around them as the Dementors swooped in, making another pass, "Squads Thurston, Jackson, and Luclus: Defensive Patroni! Squad leaders mark your targets and volley fire! Bring them down!"

Another knot of Dementors writhed in agony and then exploded, showering its fellow with black ash and scraps of cloth. Sure enough, they were killing them, but each Dementor needed at least four solid hits to be killed, and there were still hundreds more circling in the air, the ultimate murder of crows.

Alexander's arm trembled. His entire body shook. The sheer magical cost of casting the charm so many times was taking its toll. But there was only one choice: He marked another Dementor with a glowing charm, "Squad Goodson!" he roared, "All offensive! Take my target!" he screamed the incantation, and six voices followed suit, obliterating another Dementor.

It came as a surprise when the Dementors fell back, granting the defenders a moment's respite. Then the voice of evil oiled its way to them, "A most valiant effort, defenders of Azkaban," hissed the Dark Lord. They were surrounded.

"My compliments upon so valiant a defense, against such superior foes," They were trapped, surrounded by the enemy. "Surely you can see that there is no escape. Join me, and your lives will be spared."

And the remaining members of the once four hundred strong Azkaban Guard knew it, and knew that there was no way out.

Wands were up on all sides, as Alexander surveyed the men and women around him. They stood, back straight and back to back against a tightening circle of Death Eaters, liberated prisoners and Dementors. From all sides, there were discordant howls, the bone-chilling gibbering of the insane, shrieks of pleasure, and a verbal taunting that clawed at their souls.

Jan wiped the blood from her eyes. The vertical slash had nearly split her forehead in two. She raised her wand in her good arm. There was no surrender. Not to this horde of subhuman slime.

His hands were shaking, the long knife in his left-hand slick with the blood of countless slain foes, "Sir?" Kimberly Vale asked, spitting blood and broken teeth, "What are, your orders?"

Alexander paused for breath, and almost regretted it as the broken ends of his ribs grated against each other, "Our orders stand. We do our duty to the end." Alex met her eyes, "For your sake," he turned and raised his voice, "For all our sakes: Do not let them take you alive."

Kimberly blinked twice, and gave him a sharp nod, "I…we understand sir."

"Wizards and Witches of the Azkaban Guard," said Alexander, "It has been the greatest privilege of my life to serve alongside the finest to ever graduate the academy. Today, the privilege has become an honor: I know that I stand and fight alongside the finest for whatever time we have left." His gaze encompassed them all and he blinked, at the unfamiliar face in the crowd.

"You there," Alexander called, keeping his voice, strong and firm, even though there was an edge of pain in it, "What is your name?"

"Charles, sir," the man called back, keeping his gaze fixed firmly upon the horde surrounding them, "Charles King."

"Let's know you, Charles," said Alexander, "Why do you fight?"

"For my wife," he replied, "Melissa, for my girl, my baby girl." The Dementors began to circle overhead.

Alex took a deep shuddering breath, and choked down the roiling tide of emotion in his chest, "Charles, what is your baby girl's name?"

"Amelia, sir." Charles took his eyes off their enemies for a moment, blinking back tears.

He knew him, of him at least. Charles King would die alongside Alexander, "Azkaban Guards: Prepare to attack: Five count, and drop shields. Jan: lead it."

"Aye sir," she stepped next to him, and gently took his hand in her own, "We should have had more time."

"We should," he agreed. He turned to face her, and then kissed her, gently, trying desperately to communicate what should have been a lifetime of love, of memories, and of happiness in a single kiss. She rested her head on his chest for a long moment and then they were standing side by side, their fingers still entwined. Her gaze lingered on his for a few moments longer, and he gave her the slightest of nods.

"Starting count! Five… four…"

"The world, will never know what we do tonight," thought Alexander, "But the world does not matter."

"Three… two…"

"What matters is that we stand, and we fight and that we bleed the bastards. What matters is that we die standing, dying for what we believe, for the truth. For the Light, we die, as heroes."

"One!"

"Attack!"

The witches and wizards of the Azkaban Guard would charge in the gaping maw of the enemy, wands blazing hexes and curses. They would wield daggers, swords, and knives that would stab, cut, and slash through the flesh, jar against bone and continue onwards. Although the world would not know their names until many years after the Azkaban Rebellion, the Death Eaters would know them and remember them. There would be nights when the Death Eaters would speak of this last stand. Not of how, they, Voldemort's Death Eaters had overwhelmed this last handful of witches and wizards, but of how the last handful had stood and fought.

This last of the Azkaban Guard, and they fought to the very last, accounting for over three hundred of the enemy in an orgy of violence that lasted nine minutes. The Death Eaters would remember their courage and the ferocious skill displayed in this desperate last stand where seventy-two witches and wizards stood their ground and in one voice, proclaimed that they would not go silently in the darkness and that they would not surrender until the enemy stood atop their broken remains.

They honored their promise, and Lord Voldemort himself acknowledged the courage, honor, valor, and skill of these witches and wizards with hideous praise, "They would have been my finest Death Eaters." Guard Kimberly Vale was the last to die, her shield fracturing under almost a dozen cutting, piercing, and banishing charms. Within minutes of her passing, Azkaban was as silent as a tomb.

In the destroyed courtroom, it had taken the Headmaster only moments to put the pieces together. "Minister," said Dumbledore, "I would suggest that you mobilize reinforcements for Azkaban, immediately."

It still took an exorbitant amount of time to convince the Minister to dispatch reinforcements to Azkaban, only to prove their worst fears true: Azkaban was a charnel house of the dead. The initial report made grim listening: The Azkaban Guard annihilated, over 5,000 prisoners released and in the service of Voldemort. Fires were still burning, and the corpses still smoking when word arrived. Indeed, the entire raid has lasted all of the twenty-one minutes.

The trial – such as it was – was over and most of the Wizengamot left without a backward glance though quite a number threw very dark looks towards the Minister and in particular the wizard supposedly in charge of the safety of the Minister, and by extension, that of the Wizengamot, who turned his back on them as they exited the room.

"Minister, I'd look to see just who is wearing Voldemort's face," said Harry quietly. It took almost half an hour but there was no surprise as all of the Death Eaters suddenly bore exactly the same face, "Effingus" muttered Harry, "Every damn one of them an Effingus," he turned to the Headmaster, "It would appear that you bitch-boy Severus Snape did an excellent job recruiting for Voldemort." The headmaster of Hogwarts could only shake his head in quiet sadness.

There wasn't much more left to say as the group returned to the Atrium and took the Floo back to the Headmaster's office in Hogwarts. The group departed the office silently and made their way back to the castle, where word quickly spread of their return and of an immediate emergency meeting of the Legion in the Room of Requirement. Suffice to say that Dumbledore's announcement at dinner that evening was someone anticlimactic in its effect as everyone already knew the day's events, having gotten word of it from what the students by and large believed to be a significantly more reliable source.

That evening, Riddle Manor was a scene of celebration and jubilation as the magically expanded Manor played host to nearly four thousand former Azkaban Prisoners, many of whom swore their oath of loyalty and service to Voldemort and took the Dark Mark. Some were simply stunned, others gorged themselves on their first decent meal in years. Voldemort was more than satisfied. He was outright pleased with the day's events: A few lost Effingus and he had now doubled his fighting force, though many would need time to recover and train. After all, in the grand scheme of things, the Effingus were totally expendable. If nothing else, the complete breakout from Azkaban, coupled with the destruction of the Azkaban Guards would no doubt bring many of those sitting on the proverbial fence into the fold. Indeed, they would have to step up their recruitment activities in the face of their outstanding success. The revelry would go on well into the next day.