Harry Gaunt - Chapter 51

Harry didn't think he liked the sound of a ticking clock, or the creaks and groans of Grimmauld Place as the night wore on. He'd hear a noise up above, then a squeak down below beneath the floorboards. Harry moved his pillow around: he didn't like the noise, it kept him awake when he wished for sleep.

Tick, tick, tick.

And now the clock was right by his ear again. It was hopeless, he should have just kept the ward up like the times before.

"Harry…" Bellatrix murmured in her sleep, snuggling closer to him. "Sorry."

Harry would be asleep by now if she hadn't complained about the total silence his ward caused, since it seemed she didn't sleep very well without the ticking clock she was used to. "It's fine," whispered Harry with a nuzzle against her hair. "I'll fall asleep eventually." He shifted on his side and put an arm around her, which she returned by slipping her hand beneath his t-shirt. She made little circles against his skin, then fell back to sleep to the sound of a ticking clock.

Tick, tick, tick.

Harry tried shrinking the ward and placing it around his ears, but it just wasn't that easy as it collapsed into nothing. By the time early morning rolled around, Harry had given up on sleep and decided to daydream instead.

He had something on his mind, an idea, a way to establish for himself what Death had really done to him. He slipped out from beneath the covers.

"Harry?" Bellatrix startled awake as her warmth disappeared. "Where are you going?" She made out his figure standing by the bathroom door. He was putting his robes on, the sound of transfiguring fabric echoing in the room.

He turned back to her. She only heard one word.

"Azkaban."

CRACK.

Bellatrix jolted up from the bed. "Harry?" She listened, then scrambled out from beneath her sheets "HARRY!"

He was gone.

~~~~~~~

Harry was in a vortex as he shot through the sky towards Azkaban Isle, a name he'd affectionately come up with himself after visiting so many times. It hadn't changed one bit, even from here before he landed on the rocky shore, and up above, the prison itself.

There were Dementors everywhere. Harry could see up above him through the broken moonlight.

He began to move carefully across the rocks; climbing and pulling himself up towards the castle. If there were Aurors here, then Harry couldn't see them as Harry hauled him up upon a flat bit of ground. He was across from the gates in a clearing, the place looked abandoned.

!

Harry slashed his wand in a backwards arc, shielding as the dementor butted against it. It backed down, but stayed close as Harry looked at it from behind his shield. How like Death they were, he thought, with their cloaks and their fingers that reached for him. Harry had at times wondered what they had once been. A man? A wizard? He didn't know. But at least his purest shield could push them back.

But this Dementor seemed different, it wanted something from him.

"What?" answered Harry crossly with the sea spraying against his back. "What is it?" Harry dropped his shield so he could see it clearly. He felt nothing from it. Nothing was different. "TELL ME!"

The Dementor came closer, closer and closer as it raised its hand. It wanted to touch Harry's chest.

"No, stay there." Harry stepped back a bit, staring at the hand as it came near. "Don't."

Its fingers yearned to touch him.

"I am not touching you." Harry glanced at the hand in contempt. "Where are the others?" He'd seen the others before, but they were gone now. "Be gone!"

The Dementor stopped. But didn't obey as Harry prepared to send it away. Why hadn't it just attacked him? They'd always been so desperate to before, always hungry for his soul and that of his- t-that of…

Harry widened his eyes. His scar.

'Maaasterrrr…' The Dementor opened its gaping mouth.

Harry felt something tug within his chest. "LIES!" He shouted.

The Dementor lurched forward again, grabbing Harry's chest with its decaying hand. It felt cold, its feeling seeping into Harry's blood.

Then something clicked. Harry knew where the others had gone.

'Weee serrrve…' The Dementor held onto him. Harry looked weakly up. '…Deaaath.'

Harry felt himself crumple to the floor and hit his head, the Dementor drifting up towards the sky.

Harry's vision went white, the last thing he felt was the spray from the sea puddling beneath his face.

Hours later, out at sea.

"Peterson! Would you stop dithering and just pull the line in." The boat rocked to the side as a wave hit their starboard. "Hurry up!"

"Yes sir, sorry sir!" Peterson hurried away and tied the line that had come loose around their supplies. They were on a small boat heading out across the North Sea. Azkaban was ahead, a fresh start for the historic prison.

"Keep her steady!" The Auror Captain, Fletcher, shouted as he steered into the waves, hoping his small team could keep their cargo from sliding off the edge. "Tie them down!"

A wave sprayed against the bow, the sea at unrest the closer they came to the island. Fletcher had told his men to keep an eye out for land, and the small port that allowed them access between the rocks surrounding Azkaban. Another wave battered the ship. This was all for naught in Fletcher's opinion, a man who had previously celebrated the short-lived retirement of Azkaban prison.

It was unsafe, unsuited. And Dementors?

Don't get him started on the Dementors. Foul, hateful creatures that would rather watch them drown than actually guard the prisoners. But despite all this and the danger they'd be in, a motion had been passed last month to re-open the prison, and by a man who no-doubt revelled in the agony of others. Lord Black, the purest of the pure and a complete rotter in most ordinary folks' opinion.

Fletcher didn't hold the man in high regard.

"Sir, I see the island!"

"Get her ready men!" Fletcher saw a glimpse of the dreaded castle above the waves, and the Dementors too as they circled around. They were so attached to the place, some said it was where they had been born. "Give me a course!"

"Through the break sir! There were the waves turn white!" It was the surf he was referring to, it could be seen even this as it frothed against the rocks. And there was the port, it jutted out like a wall of stone around an inlet of sea.

Fletcher spun the wheel and directed the boat, holding on with the others as the sea undulated terribly. One of the recruits threw up on the deck, followed by another before a wave almost washed them all away. Every one of them was soaked, miserable and aside from Fletcher, badly paid. It wasn't surprising then that they resented people like Black, which Fletcher thought Moody had the right of.

They needed to fight back and gain power, push against this rising aggression from the Purebloods. Only then would their society be equal.

"Watch them," said Fletcher with an on the sky. "Watch them close." The Dementors were showing interest, drifting towards them like flags in the wind. If they swarmed, only Fletcher could fend them off.

"Sir, they're coming down!" shouted another young man with his wand pointed up. The boat was still rocking. "Stupefy!"

"Keep down!" Fletcher turned the wheel and kept their course. "Ignore them! Those spells won't work you idiot!"

Peterson came to the rescue and dragged his friend back from the edge. They knew ordinary spells wouldn't work on them, and even if the Ministry claimed they could control them, they really didn't. It was all just bluster and a mutual benefit of supplying food to them. They ate souls for pity's sake.

"Easy, easy lads. We're almost there, stay down." The island was approaching now, it hadn't changed as the boat approached from the side. If only the others knew the horrors Fletcher had seen there, they wouldn't have come. "Good, nearly there lads."

The boat stayed clear of the rocks circling the castle, and within a minute the small boat had arrived at the mouth of the port. Fletcher angled the boat inside, feeling the difference when the waves stopped spraying above their heads.

"Did we make it?" asked Peterson from behind the cargo. He'd hidden with his friend after pulling him back. "Oh, sweet lord. Thank you."

The others held similar sentiments as they clambered up from around the strapped down cargo, each of them looking around within the walls that protected them. They were a black stone, old and filled with the castle's magic.

"Yes, we made it," said Fletcher as he stayed by the wheel. "We'll get a bit closer, lay anchor, then apparate to the island." They'd past the wards some miles back, which prevented all sorts of travel between the island.

"It looks different than I'd imagined," said Peterson as he stared at the castle ahead. "I didn't think it would be this huge. And the rocks, they're everywhere."

They were sharp and jagged, like honeycomb that had bubbled up from beneath the waves.

"Peterson, lay anchor." Fletcher ordered as they got close enough. "The rest, prepare to leave."

Fletcher moved across the deck in his leather trench coat, which was old and worn like the others as they prepared to depart. None had been red since the day they were new, and appeared faded now like a leather brown.

Thud.

The anchor tugged the boat as it hit the sea floor. Peterson re-joined the group as Fletcher gathered his men into a loose circle.

"Right men, you all know what comes next," he said to their worried faces. The Dementors were still above, circling like sharks. "We get to the office, setup defence, then return for the supplies."

"Should we apparate all at once?" asked Peterson.

Fletcher shook his head. "Follow after me one at a time. I'll aim for that clearing over there to avoid the rocks." Fletcher had been there before, it was where the prisoners were finally exectuted. "Now."

Fletcher apparated.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

And finally, Peterson appeared in the clearing, the doors to Azkaban hanging open just behind them.

Fletcher barked orders about protecting the perimeter, moving and getting to the office before the Dementors came too close.

"Peterson, hurry up!"

"Sorry sir." Peterson hurried away across the flattened stone towards the office, a small building built at the castle's base. It was newer, and had a large pathway separating it from the prison. "Sir, why haven't the Dementors tried anything yet?" he asked as they slipped inside through the metal door. "They must be starving."

The others were already inside, the office had been gutted.

"You've jinxed it now," sighed one of them as he blocked up a broken window. "They'll be on us once we leave here." He looked back to the others, they seemed to agree.

"Shut it," snapped Fletcher near the door, an eye out the window at the Dementors outside. "They're not as keen as they usually are." He admitted with a shuffle back towards his men near the broken table. "But it's good. We'll take turns bringing the supplies in."

Fletcher gestured to two of the men, telling them to apparate back to the boat and begin unloading.

"Peterson, you stay put. I don't want you wondering off." Fletcher gave him a look. He'd been warned about the curious Muggleborn.

Peterson nodded. "What were they like before?" he returned as the two men returned with an armful of boxes.

"Miles, Deganon. Assist them." Fletcher looked back to Peterson. "What?"

"What were they like before," repeated Peterson. "I read that the Dementors were vicious creatures, deadly, shouldn't they have at least come to investigate?" They'd hardly dropped less than 100 feet above their heads through their whole trip.

Fletcher grunted. "Who knows what those things are thinking," he said. "Maybe they're just slow today." He glanced away and out the window, spotting a few drifting down beside the castle.

Peterson saw them too. He moved closer for a better look.

"Peterson."

"I know sir." Peterson shuffled up beneath the window, then peeked up to see the clearing outside. "They're gathering. Is that normal?" He glanced back.

"Yes, just ignore them." Fletcher had turned his attention to the returning supplies.

Peterson turned back to the window. He didn't think it was a good idea to just ignore them, they were some of the most feared magical creatures in the world, on par with the Basilisks, Nundu's and the Dragons of course. Peterson had seen a Dragon once, from afar at a reserve in Romania. "This place feels weird."

The Dragons hadn't felt like this. They didn't make you feel like your life had no meaning, that your every fear was present and before your very eyes. And the cold, a chill that wasn't just the sea breeze.

"It's getting colder sir." Peterson watched it breath condense in the air. "Sir, it's-"

"I know Peterson," said Fletcher shortly as he sat down by the table leg. "Come away from the window. We have to arrange our food for the next few weeks." He picked up a small box that had been brought in.

"Y-yes sir, sorry sir." Peterson shuffled over, keeping low since that's what everyone else seemed to be doing. "So why is it cold?"

Sigh.

Fletcher rubbed his balding head. "It's their magic, it leaks into the air like a dying stench." He ripped the box open, opening a jar with careful hands. "You'll get used it." Pickles, Fletcher loved pickles as he plucked one out.

"I suppose that makes sense sir." Peterson declined when Fletcher offered him one. "I hadn't read about that bit."

"It's not well-known," confirmed Fletcher as the supplies continued to come in. "They're unique as far as creatures go. Genderless. East souls. They can't speak either, but they can fly like you wouldn't believe." Fletcher looked down at the jaw in his hands. He shook his head. "And they're strong, physically I mean. I once saw a man be lifted clear off the ground with a single arm."

Then had his soul promptly removed, before the Dementor moved along and attacked another. They seemed to serve no purpose, or anyone, their actions were that of a hive. It took only one to attack and then they all would.

"Are they intelligent?" asked Peterson.

Fletcher sniffed, taking a bite from another pickle. "Not by our standard. More like a dog I'd say." He placed the lid back on the jar and sealed it tight. "Get yourself settled with somewhere to sleep. We'll check the island once the supplies are inside."

It would be a bit longer before everything was moved in, and until actual beds could be delivered, they'd settle for using magic to make themselves more comfortable.

~~~~~~~

Harry woke with the sensation of being in many places at once, here on the floor by a bloodied stone, over there by the sea and up there among the clouds. He felt strong again, strong enough to slowly sit up while the wind tussled his hair.

It was daytime. Harry's head was bleeding. "Damn." He looked down at the floor and the uneven rock where he'd hit it. "Ah. Right." This was Azkaban, he'd come here to find out if Death was really done with him.

Evidently though, it wasn't as a Dementor drifted down upon a gentle breeze. Harry knew it was there, he could feel it, along with the rest now circling above him in the morning sun. "You again…"

Harry watched the same Dementor touch delicately down against the floor. It was hovering, yet looked to be standing. It was waiting again.

Harry remembered what it had said. They'd called him master, yet it was Death that they served. "What do you want this time?" Harry asked from the floor to its mummified face. It was still just watching him, the others up high watching from above. "Move back." Harry tried to get up.

The Dementor obeyed.

"Stay there." Harry got a sense that it understood him as he rose carefully to his feet. This was surreal, there were hundreds of them up there. "What are you waiting for?" Harry dared to glance up at the one's above. "Am I your master?"

They moved. Yes.

Harry couldn't believe it, but thought as he glanced away, that somehow through everything he'd done, he was now akin to Death to these things. Their magic and his was too similar to deny it. "But they've never done this before…" he said with a frown. "Maybe I did die that day." He contemplated what dying was like, and what it would be like to come back from it. "I see. I am the closest thing they'll ever have."

Harry wore Death like a cloak, and to them there was no difference. Some might call it fate as Harry turned back to the castle. "Hm-?"

"H-hi," said Peterson by the gates of the prison. "W-who might y-you be?" He stood alone in the blowing wind. He'd not heard what Harry had said, they were the murmurings of a madman with an army of Dementors. "I'll just be going then."

Peterson ran through the doors after his team, who had wisely slipped inside since the Dementors had been so occupied.

Harry stayed put by the rocks, the Dementors behind drifting idly. "Bellatrix-" Harry realised with a start. She must be apoplectic with worry. "-and stuck."

He turned back to the Dementors. "Return and guard the prison. Keep the Aurors safe."

Yes.

Harry felt them comply. He disappeared with a thundering crack.

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