Harry Potter: Sentenced To Azkaban

Azkaban, July 16, 1997

They're coming. Harry climbed up on the stone slab that served as his bed and peered out the small barred window. The sun was just beginning to set and Harry knew without a doubt that shortly after it had set, two groups would be invading Azkaban. Voldemort's, who would no doubt try to recruit him, once he realised just how powerful Harry had become and would continue to become. And Dumbledore's who undoubtedly try to kill him

As he sat back down, Harry couldn't help wondering which of his enemies would reach him first the Order or the Deatheaters.

If he hadn't lost track of too many days, courtesy of the Dementors, then Harry estimated that he'd been here about ten months. Back when he'd started his sixth year, Harry wouldn't have thought his life, could get much worse after Sirius' death and then finding out that because of a prophecy that Trelawney made that he either had to kill Voldemort, or be killed by him, but it turned out he was wrong. It could get worse and had.

Barely two weeks into his sixth year, Harry had had his wand snapped by Dumbledore, expelling him from Hogwarts, then he had been arrested and subjected to a farce of a trial, accused of killing Neville Longbottom and being in league with Voldemort. Where all his former friends had gleefully stood up and given evidence about what an evil dark wizard he was. No one had listened to his protestations of innocence.

What few I was allowed to make, before they hit me with a silencing charm, Harry reflected wryly.

He shook his head again over the idiocy of the people who made up the wizarding world, including supposedly intelligent people like Dumbledore and Granger.

Dumbledork knew what the prophecy said. He was the one who'd heard the damn thing in the first place. How could he possibly believe that locking the one destined to defeat Voldemort up was a good idea? More importantly, how could that old fool possibly believe the tripe that Fudge was spouting about how he'd joined Voldemort and that he'd murdered Neville as proof of his loyalty.

Granger had done the unforgivable as far as he was concerned, along with her partner-in-crime. And thanks to the Dementors, that particular memory was etched in his mind forever.

As Fudge, Percy, and the group of Aurors were dragging him out of Hogwarts, they encountered the Gryffindor students who had apparently decided to give him a little send off. His housemates led by Granger and the Weasel, were waiting out on the lawn in front of the main entrance, with the heads of the four houses off to one side, and all his things piled up in front of them. As soon as his fellow Gryffindors had caught sight of him, they began hurling foul epithets at him.

Fudge had seemed quite pleased by their reaction to his supposed disgrace and had been more than willing to stand there while they verbally ripped Harry to shreds. Ron and Hermione had something more planned though. As one they raised their wands and shouted, "Incendious!"

His belongings burst into flame. Struggling against the iron grip of the two Aurors holding him, Harry wanted to try and save at least his Firebolt, the only remaining gift he had from his godfather, but he couldn't get free. As his things continued to burn and the Gryffindors to cheer at the sight, Harry saw Hermione was holding something else up. His photo album! She had waited until he saw her holding it before casting it into the flames.

Harry fought even harder trying to get free, but it was futile. Tears ran down his face, as he was forced to watch the only images he'd ever had of his parents burned to cinders.

The heads of House made no attempt to stop the impromptu bonfire. They just stood there and watched his things burn.

That was the last time he had cried. Even now, the thought that his friends and the members of the Order hadn't bothered to get his side of the story, made him angry rather than sad. They were all so quick to rush to judgement. It was apparently easier to believe Fudge's atrocious claims than to bother to think things out themselves. At first, he couldn't understand how Weasel and Granger could believe it though. Spending all the time they had with him, how could they really believe that he would dishonour his parents' and Sirius' memories by joining the person responsible for their deaths. These days he didn't care about their reasons. Every time he'd had to relive that particular memory for the pleasure of the Dementors, Harry vowed to make Granger, the Weasel, and everyone else pay for what they'd done.

Leaning back against the wall, Harry thought over the last few months. They had certainly been an eye-opener. In an attempt at self-preservation, his magic had begun working in a way Harry had never heard of before. He was now largely unaffected by the Dementors. They only made him mildly uncomfortable these days. He could also now feel the magic currents flowing about him. Apparently the "power the Dark Lord Knows not" was the ability to manipulate magic with his mind and will alone. What he wanted to occur would, if there was enough magic around to make it happen.

He couldn't wait until Dumbledork and Moldyshorts got here, so he could show them both just how much he'd learned in a place where magic was supposed to be impossible to do.

Hearing footsteps coming up the passageway, Harry resumed, his vacant, idiot look, so the guard or whoever was coming wouldn't get suspicious.