Lonely Fortress On The Island

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The Northern sea, a sea of the Atlantic Ocean separating the British Isles from the continental mainland. It connected the Isles to Netherlands and Belgium, Denmark to Norway, touched the shores of Germany, and even made its way to the lush country of Sweden.

In the sea, on a small island surrounded from all sides with blue, a small, scrappy, splintered wooden boat swayed lightly on the shores with a flimsy braided rope of husk tying it to the simple pier.

The sea was too placid for a sanguine moon that hung above. The birds that flew hastily could feel that the placidity was a sign and rushed to take shelter. There was a storm a-brewing.

The boat began to roll from side to side, and the temperature dipped all of a sudden. Dark clouds obscured the moon. They churned grimly in the night sky, as black as a witch's Sabbath. The mercurial moon flushed with the silver from the thunderhead, casting the shivers of moonlight with a ghostly glow. Underneath the sky and the moon, the rain moved towards the small island and the boat like a Dementor's wraithy veil of despair. A wind blew and winnowed, rippling the surface of the corpse calm sea.

The boat heaved and tossed in the rising, swelling waves. The sea was calling it, but the rope didn't allow, hanging taut — it was as if it knew if the boat left, it would never come back.

The rain-shroud passed by, spitting the harsh tears on the great mirror that reflected the sky. The rain whipped down like crystal nails, and streaky lightning emblazoned the sky. The sea tides rose, the boat jerked and soaked in the northern winds, speeding the impending dome. The lacerating rain stung the rope, the strands snapped one by one — even the unity that made the rope strong couldn't stop nature's wrath roaring edict.

It snapped. It snapped, and the boat heeded the call of Poseidon. It bobbed like a cork upon the capacious sea. The timber planks buckled and bulged, then screaked and shuddered, but the boat righted herself once more like a brave hero against the bravery.

But the bedlam of the sea wasn't kind nor fair.

The boat rose with the swell, inclining upwards to its destruction. It was propelled up onto the lip and hovered there, a fly-speck on the cobwebbed lines of the wave. Time seemed suspended. The whirlpool gaped under him with dire-white jaws. It roiled and spun, inviting craft in. Then the boat plummeted down into its milky depths, swallowed whole in a final, terrible squeak of timber.

It was then black-shrouded figures began descending from above, surrounded in black sooty smoke of hell. It was as if the pandemonic sky had spit them out. The haze cleared and appeared from within were black-hooded figures with snake-like eye slits covering their faces. All held brooms in their gloved hands as they looked above as the clouds overhead funnelled together and from the middle descended a dense trail of haze blacker than the pits of Tartarus.

The haze landed on the island between the hooded and masked figures, but unlike them, this one wasn't holding a broom — all he wore was a simple loose grey robe over the skeletal frame.

"This cold," said the robed figure, "the touch of despair, a hint of sorrow, and the infinite empty void. . . it can't be found anywhere but in their breeding grounds."

"Avery," said the man with snake-like features. The thunder still struck, and the winds continued to roar, but his voice was as clear on a cloudless day. The rain still poured, trying to drown everything, but not a single drop hit the man.

One of the hooded figures stepped forward and bowed his head.

"Bring the jailers to greet me," said the man, his voice deep, "take Yaxley, Crabbe, and Goyle with you."

"Yes, master," said Avery and nodded at the three hoods that stepped out. The four went out to a small outhouse on a raised cliff at the edge of the island.

Flew flashes, and sometime later, the four men returned with four others bound in chains behind them. The rain mixed with the beach sand coated them as they were dragged on the ground while they tried to struggle. They were dumped right between the encirclement of the hooded individuals.

"Gentlemen," said the master.

The four bound men, Hit Wizards in charge of keeping an eye on the fortress built on the island, looked up from the ground as the rain hit their faces. For a moment, they were confused about what they were looking at — a man with increasingly waxy, reptilian, and bone-white skin.

One of the "jailers" remembered something that he had read in the papers. It was an interview with Albus Dumbledore, and in it, the interviewer had asked Dumbledore to describe the Dark Lord — more than a decade and no pictures of the Dark Lord, so who better to ask but the man who led the opposition to the Tyranny — in that interview, Dumbledore went onto describe the Dark Lord's appearance (the one he had seen in Harry's memories.)

"T-The Da-Dark Lord!!" said the Hit Wizard in horrid exclamation.

"You're correct, Hit Wizard," said Voldemort, "it is indeed I, the Dark Lord . . . Voldemort."

A chill went down the four jailers' spines as their hearts started to thump inside their chests; suddenly, the early February rain wasn't cold; the heat of fear filled their bodies. The realization of the fact what Dumbledore was speaking for months was indeed true came crashing down on him.

"I have some very important things to do at your place of work, gentlemen," said Voldemort, "unfortunately for all of you, your presence is a hindrance. As such, all of you will have to go."

The thin and long fingers took out the thing that felt the most comfortable in Voldemort's hands and held it with the gentlest of the touch, a picture of serenity. On the contrary, the four Hit Wizards in charge were thrashing on the ground at the sight of the Dark Lord brandishing a wand.

The last thing the Hit Wizards heard was the whisper — "Avada Kedavra" — and the last memories of their lives were tainted and overwhelmed by the bright flash of AK-green.

Not a moment after the four deaths, Edward Nott stepped forward and spoke, "We will start, my lord," and took out his own wand. But Voldemort raised his hands and stopped his Death Eaters as all of them took out their wands to charge the fortress.

"I'll take care of this myself," said Voldemort, "my most loyal of servants," all Death Eaters lowered their eyes, "deserve for me to be freed by my own hand — they have kept the integrity of my name alive in these hallowed halls for more than a decade — they have earned to be rewarded, to be honored, to feel the first touch of unfettered air and know in an instant that it was me. . . . Not to mention, if you all go inside, you will only be hindrances — the real jailors will consume all intruders without a second of delay."

The Death Eaters shivered. Every single of them knew the despairing touch of a Dementor felt. Barty Crouch Sr., during his campaign to put every Death Eater behind bars, had made Dementors escort them while they were under arrest. The now-dead man was vindictive to the limit in his golden days and had made sure that their brief time in the chains with the Auror Office was as unpleasant as he could possibly make it.

Voldemort stared straight ahead at the triangular monolithic tower. It was made from black stone covering every inch of the building. He had only once visited this island and that too for a very short period. During his reign, when no one dared to even speak his name, his servants roamed freely and without consequence. There was no need for him to ever step on this island. So he took a moment and gazed at the world's most horrid wizarding prison — the fortress of Azkaban.

The island in the North Sea on which the wizard prison was built had never appeared on any map, wizard or Muggle. Its first known resident, Ekrizdis, practiced the worst kinds of Dark magic and constructed a fortress on the island, luring Muggle sailors there to torture and murder them. After his death, the various concealment charms placed on the isle faded, and the Ministry of Magic became aware of the mysterious site's existence. Those who entered the deserted fortress to investigate discovered, among other horrors, an infestation of Dementors.

The wizarding authorities of the time considered destroying the fortress, but, fearing reprisal by the dark entities or the island itself, decided against such action, and the Ministry allowed the sizeable colony to remain; the island was thus left unmolested and unchecked for many years, decades until the International Statute of Secrecy was established.

Due to the impracticality of using small, local prisons, which could result in bangs, smells, and light shows if inmates escaped, plans for a single, purpose-built wizarding prison on some remote Hebridean island were made at the passing of the International Statute of Secrecy. However, when Damocles Rowle was elected Minister for Magic in 1718, he insisted on using Azkaban instead, seeing the Dementors as a potential asset: putting them to work as guards would save expense, time, and lives. This plan was eventually put into motion and, despite protests, Azkaban was made the magical prison of Britain, and Rowle's decision was a major success as Azkaban showed a zero breakout rate for centuries.

During his term, Minister Eldritch Diggory visited Azkaban and was horrified at the inhumane levels of despair and insanity that the Dementors induced in the prisoners. He formed a committee to find alternative solutions or mitigating measures, the least of which was to remove the Dementors; even this, however, met opposition from those who feared a mainland invasion if the Dementors were deprived of their food source. Diggory died of Dragon Pox while in office, and thus the campaign to find an alternative to Azkaban's Dementors stalled.

Reversing his predecessor's position, when Minister Hesphaestus Gore took office, the prison was renovated and reinforced — shedding its fortress-like appearance and turning it into the triangular monolith and had remained the same way. . . till today.

Voldemort raised his wand towards the tower. Three energy orbs of blood-red muddled with black manifested and flew out to place themselves in a triangular position one meter apart from each other. The red light from the orbs cast a glow on Voldemort's indifferent face.

The orbs began violently vibrating, and the Death Eaters all took a step back. Three beams of crushing power, one from each, came crashing into each other at the mid-point of the triangle, and the shaking reached a peak before the spell went still — like the calm before the storm — the very next second, a concentrated beam discharged out from the mid-point towards the fortress.

For a second, nothing happened. Then came a zapping sound — Voldemort's spell had crossed the sound barrier. After a streak of red electric bolts covered the surface of the tower. There was another couple of seconds pause before the exterior of the monolithic building started to crack. With every passing second, the cracks grew, and rubble began falling — big and small — but it kept falling.

A flurry of screeches followed after as hooded wraiths in hundreds began flying out the tower and more began descended down from the chaotic clouds. The Death Eater brigade clutched their wands in nervousness as the screeching tattered robes formed a dark dome surrounding the island. Only Voldemort seemed unconcerned.

He lazily flicked his wand, and fans of yellowish-brown flames began flying out in waves over waves, crashing out into the dome of Dementors. Louder screeches filled the sky — but now they were of pain and fear.

Patronus spell was the mainstream spell of choice to handle Dementors, and if used correctly, it did amazingly well. But a Patronus was a gentle option. There were spells on the dark spectrum that could be used against the Dementors — the wraiths were amortal and couldn't be killed, but that didn't mean that they couldn't be made to feel pain and fear.

After half a minute, Voldemort stopped and lowered his wand hand. A small smile appeared on his face as he saw a single Dementor fly out from the tower and float in front of him. It screeched harshly.

"Submit to me, and I will let you feed," said Voldemort. "You will be able to feed more than you and your kind have ever done on this island. This is a prison, and if you submit, I will free you from it. Refuse and I will plunge you into the pits of agony beyond imagination."

The Dementor hovered in his place for a good while before bowing its hooded head. As it did that, the Dementors dome crumbled and the wraiths flew away.

"Now, come to out. . . it's time to return home," said Voldemort gazing at the tower in shambles. Another smile appeared on his face as he saw a familiar figure step out into the open.

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One day she was at the top of the world, serving her beloved master from the bottom of her heart, seeding chaos and destruction, spreading the fire of her master's terror. Those were the best days of her life — she had found the purpose of her and was living the dream every single second of her life. But then, one day, everything came crashing down as her beloved lord, the one who she would do anything, disappeared. He had gone to take care of something on his own, but he never returned. The whispers that he was dead reached her ears, but she knew that it wasn't true. She knew that he was out there, needing her help.

However, before she could go out to her help her master, she was captured by the filthy Aurors, and before she knew it, she was in Azkaban — the worst day of her life — not because of the Dementors, they weren't a problem — it was the day she was barred away from helping her master.

The next decade she spent in her prison wasn't bad. The Dementors were a bit pesky, but they were cute trying to push her into gloom — it seemed that they didn't know who she was — she was Despair; their attempts meant nothing to her. They tried to suck out her happiness, but all it did was bring out her memories with her beloved master, but they weren't able to suck them out — she didn't allow it — it wasn't allowed.

Then one day, the only mark on her body that had faded away over time began darkening and returned to how she remembered it was during happy times.

Her master, her lord, her everything had returned.

From that day forward, she waited in eagerness for the day her master would come to get her.

And then one cold day (like every day), the Dementors were bothering her (like every day), but then they suddenly went as the tower began shaking — it had never shaken like it did today. In the blink of an eye, the roof and wall of her home (her cell) crumbled away, leaving her to see the sight of the sky for the first time ever in thirteen years. Even when they had changed her cell, they had blinded her for the time she was outside.

She finally had an image in her eyes to match the sound of waves she heard every day from her cell. She slowly stepped out towards the edge and just took in everything.

Then she heard the voice she had been waiting to hear. It was just a whisper, but it was everything.

"Time to return home, Bellatrix."

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"My lord."

Voldemort turned away from talking to Bellatrix Lestrange and turned to Peter Pettigrew, who called out to him.

"Speak, Wormtail."

"The thing I talked about to you before," said Peter, "about talking someone else with us."

They were here to take the imprisoned Death Eaters, but Peter wanted to take someone else with them.

"So, where is this boy you want to take with us?" Voldemort asked. He didn't care what happened to the other prisoners. They could die for all he could care or make it to the mainland and do anything they wanted, which happening was low with the island being surrounded by the Northern sea, and the Dementor-treated prisoners couldn't bring out magic even if they did try to attempt apparition without wands.

"Bring him here," said Peter.

Two Death Eaters dragged a sickly-looking man, holding him up with his arms around their shoulders as the man couldn't stand on his own.

Voldemort wasn't impressed. All his imprisoned Death Eaters were able to stand and walk, albeit weakly, after more than a decade in Azkaban. This one didn't look he had been in prison for even half of that.

"What is your name, boy, speak," said Voldemort impatiently.

The man feebly raised his head to look at Voldemort and gazed at the Dark Lord with his dead eyes. He opened his mouth, and a raspy voice escaped his chipped lips.

"Rivers Lock."

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Voldemort - Dark Lord - "Looking into my eyes, Rivers Lock."

Bellatrix Lestrange - Free at last - Dementors are cute.

Peter Pettigrew - Recommender - Always thinking, always planning.

Rivers Lock - Novellus Accionites(defunct) - Ex-Leader.

FictionOnlyReader - Author - Oh yeah, I liked this chapter a lot.

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The link is in the synopsis!