September 3rd, 1942

Azkaban was a cold, dark place. But most of all, it was silent. Cells were placed far enough from each other that it was impossible to hear the fervent mutterings of fellow prisoners, and many had even lost their own voice to equal shares of unuse, and throat tearing screaming. To some, the hollowing shriek of dementors that loomed and patrolled the halls had even grown comforting. It was an awful, putrid sound, but is was noise, and it meant, that there was in fact, still something out there, even if it was a twisted, amortal prison guard. The only constant sound besides the sporadic wailing, was the soft lapping of waves against stone and the muted trickle of rain that never seemed to stop falling. Even the gruel and potions that were administered to keep prisoners alive but just so, appeared in a dull, clay bowl that seemingly materialized while they were asleep. The guard who distributed rations was never seen, and many thought that it was a spell that delivered the food- it was impossible to predict when the next meal would be served.

If a wizard was lucky enough to live past their sentencing, the lively noise of the outside world that they so dearly craved while being incarcerated would often be too much, and most ended up becoming recluse, introverts, and developing some sort of agoraphobia. It was thus, that Chester Blackwood who was the only wizard who had conducted a post Azkaban interview after his six year sentencing with the Daily Prophet, and later published author of-How To Survive Azkaban and Retain ⅓ of Your Sanity- that had been subsequently banned, had stated:

"Always remember to talk. Don't scream, don't yell- don't stay silent because than you might forget how to use your own voice- and in there, that's all you have. Talk, even if you have to refer to yourself in third. Call yourself by your name- because nobody else will. Once you're in there- you're not a pureblood, or a muggleborn, or even a wizard or witch.

I sometimes wondered if I was human at all,

I was just a name- that was mine, a name, my name.

And that was enough."

Morfin Gaunt was not an intelligent man. He was at least able to recognize that much himself. He seldom read the Prophet, and had therefore missed the above article which may have made his stay slightly more comfortable. Luckily for Morfin, the inbreed wizard already had the habit of talking to himself. Not that anyone would realize he was uttering words and not merely hissing. However to him, it was their fault for not understanding the nobel tongue of Slytherin, and Morfin found snakes better conversationalists anyway. At least they would listen to him, and follow his orders. They recognized him for his noble heritage.

Morfin Gaunt huddled into himself in the far corner of his cell, his fractured mind trying and failing to go over the events that had occurred only a month prior. He had been released from Azkaban after hexing that filthy muggle Riddle. Morfin hadn't understood why he got a sentence, if in trouble at all, for what he'd done. He didn't regret it- Merope the little slag should have known better than to be enamored with some poncy muggle. However three long years of being in Azkaban had dissuaded Morfin from openly practicing hexes on muggles. Morfin had sworn to be more careful. He'd make sure he wouldn't be caught, had any muggle bothered him in the future. Yet a month ago he'd killed the Riddles, slewn them like the swine they were.

He had killed them, killed them for tainting Merope and daring to sully the Slytherin line. He'd known she'd lain with Riddle, slut she was. He'd killed them- proclaimed so to the auror's who found him cackling at the scene of the crime. So why then, did Morfin feel the situation was odd? Before he could fully grasp the suspicion that had arose within him, the thought was lost and the cross eyed wizard devolved into shrill laughter.

"Snakey snakey, why are you so still?" Morfin glared at a thin crack that lay jagged on the stone floor. "Come, little thing, you don't want old Morfin to kill you too, right?" The crack, as it was a crack, did nothing. Morfin's face twisted in rage, and he slammed his dirty fists into the ground, hissing in indignation. His knuckles were already cracked, and dry blood flecked off at the force of the pounding, reopening barely closed wounds. "Silly serpent, to ignore me is to seek your end, it is me who you don't want to offend." Morfin giggled at his rhyme, thinking it something fantastic, and ignored the sting of his hands.

Harry looked blankly at the man in front of him, unable to muster an ounce of pity. He had seen this man in dear Tom's memories, and even though Morfin hadn't butchered the Riddles, he had many heinous crimes to his name. Merope wasn't the only one who liked using trickery to garner the 'affections' of muggles. She, however, had at least left Riddle alive after. Morfin was far more brutal in his lascivious ways, and Harry suspected that if the ministry had discovered those particular crimes, he would have gotten the kiss rather than life in Azkaban- not that he would live much longer.

Harry was wearing hooded, worn robes that had seen better days. They were dusty, moderately ripped, and clearly patched by someone who wasn't an expert seamster and cared more for function, rather then appearance. Overall Harry was dressed remarkably like the inhabitants of the prison. Harry forgave himself for his haggard appearance though, as he had woken three days prior, bleeding, disoriented, and flush with confusion.

OoO

September 1'st, 1942

Because if waking up in the middle of a field in Merlin knows where was bad, it was worse without a wand, one shoe, and a pounding headache. To top of the fantastic feeling of dissonance, Harry's scar ached, something that hadn't happened since the defeat of Voldemort. The smell of sheep was potent, most likely saturating his clothes, Harry noted, and leaving it's barnyard stench to linger for days. Harry squinted, and glanced up towards the glowing sun.

Disoriented, alone, and dumped in what appeared to be a field, Harry wondered what the bloody fuck happened last night. As he was caught up in thought Harry felt a horrible wet sensation against his check and yelped-not that I would ever admit that- and turned around in his bloodied robes to come face to face with a pair of yellow, bar-pupiled eyes.

Behind Harry a herd of miniature little cloven-hoofed creatures stared up at him in what appeared to be fascination. Harry's brief exploit to the petting zoo in kindergarten when Dudley had begged and Petunia hadn't been able to find a sitter, told him that they were 'pygmy' goats. There were fourteen in total, their coats varying from caramel brown and white to black and auburn. The particular one whose tongue was lopping to the side, that had just slobbered all over Harry, appeared smaller than the rest. It blinked.

Harry blinked.

Avoiding making eye contact with the battalion of caprine soldiers Harry sat up, and grimaced at the sharp spike of pain. Two ribs fractured at least. The Master Of Death pushed a goat away that had taken to nibbling on the fringes of his dragonhide robe- not that it mattered, since it was busted beyond simple repair- and moved to summon his wand.

Harry watched in mild horror as it was wrenched from the jaws of one particularly orange goat, and swore to buy a proper wand cleaning kit once he could. The death stick, through all the years it existed, Harry doubted it had been subjected to such disrespect. The wizard stood up, shaking slightly, and searched for a shepherd, or the person who was watching the creatures. Surely, they wouldn't just be left to roam by themselves? The little goat that had licked him bleated in indignation at being ignored and butted it's baseball sized head Harry's foot. As it was his shoed foot, Harry ignored it and continued thinking.

The creature- the Moirai, had head-butted him. If that wasn't enough to be classified as extremely odd, Harry didn't know what was. The Moirai were a rare mythical best thought to be amortal like dementors and lethifolds, like banshees, they could talk and communicate. They had a strong prophetic nature and used to be herald as oracles, though they had grown scarce in the last thousand years. When the Moirai did fight, they used magic- profound and ancient, and definitely not melee head-buts.

Harry's robe was buggered as a piece of clothing, but the pockets were fine. Harry had enlarged them to an exceptional degree, and had them professionally charmed and enhanced. Ever since… the incident that had happened in Egypt, Harry kept a sizable supply of potions, gold, and artifacts on him should anything happen.

…

…

After successfully casting a diagnostic spell and healing himself to a functioning degree, Harry did his best to mend the fabric of his clothes. He'd gotten into many battles with creatures and experienced so much shit over the years, Harry could probably outwrite Gilderoy Lockhart using actual tales from his life instead of fictitious drivel.

Harry sighed, and eyed the goats. Unable to sense anyone, and figuring he was relatively alone, Harry reached into his pocket and withdrew a blank, folded yellowed sheet. He unfolded it with practiced ease, smoothed the rumpled surface, and held it outstretched. Harry quietly hissed "Mischief managed," and a global map bloomed on the surface of the wan parchment. Harry had taken an interest in the moderately unexplored realm of cartography magic after studying the genius work the Marauder's had done on their infamous Map. This one was unique to Harry. It was in nowhere detailed as the Hogwarts map was, and only had countries, larger bodies of water and rivers, major magical and muggle cities and establishments, notable ruin sites, and danger zones. Harry had keyed it too himself, and was mildly surprised to see Harry J. Potter appear over Aberdeenshire Scotland.

After taking a moment to gather himself, Harry folded the map back up, and put it away. It wasn't the first time he had been involuntarily teleported, but he wondered how he managed to get back to Scotland from Greece without getting spliced to hell and back.

The Master of Death's stomach rumbled.

Harry was hungry- he hadn't felt this famished in ages. He also needed to get a checkup via Mediwizard, but that could wait until the morning. Harry had enough power left to apparate to Hogsmeade from where he was, and decided he could get a check up after he ate and slept. He gave the goats one final bemused glance, and vanished from the grassy plane.

[BLACK BOX] Morfin Gaunt thought Merope's silly infatuation with the muggle Riddle was inane. Even though the man was wealthy, they were wizards of noble blood. They were part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, they would rise back in power with time, where the Riddles would die and be forgotten, lost to history and memory alike. He understood her lust, though. Morfin would often find a pretty muggle lass and allow her to experience what it was like to bed a wizard, but he made quick work of them after he was finished. Merope's 'love' though? Absolutely ridiculous.