Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter.
A/N: Sorry all for the long wait, but if you read my profile you'll understand this hasn't been an easy time of my life. I hope to update more regularly now, once a week or so, since I've finished my Masters and I'm finally out of college. Thanks to all who took the time to review, now to answer some of your questions.
Darth Bill: I didn't say why he was convicted yet, but I hope you're not expecting an elaborate plot to chuck him in prison; when I explain why he was sent to prison maybe there are some who'll think it a fair punishment. Glad you liked my Hedwig!
Skoell: Any relationship Harry gets into won't be 'normal'; he'll be having fun, no doubt, and there won't be any fluff or annoying girlfriends. As to why Ron and Hermione are betrothed I'll offer my insight into their relationship, one I think is valid not only for my fic but for the canon as well.
Hir: Got nothing definite for Tonks, but don't worry about her getting killed, worse that could happen to her would be to be turned into Harry's sex slave.
anaknisatanas: You mean join him as in a follower or something? Doubt it, as his opinion of wizards is at an all time low.
henriette: Harry can have fun with Tonks without having her for a girlfriend, right? And while I agree with you that he'd enjoy some ass, it definitely matters if it's a guy or girl. No slash, ever!
vojorocks: Harry had to wait three years, first because he went insane, and when he discovered his powers he actually had to practice them. Oh, btw, he definitely snapped.
Alorkin: I understand if you don't like the fics where Ron is portrayed as a jealous idiot, but the fact is that I consider him a jealous idiot. Hermione won't have a completely leaky brain, and Harry most definitely won't be forgiving anyone anytime soon.
Treck: Oh, I will. Just give me time to think of a suiting end for the greasy fucker.
On with the story!
Chapter 4 – Dumbledore to the rescue!
I woke up at sunrise like I always did, but instead of energized I was tired, sore and bruised. That's what you get when you spend five hours in a bed having rough sex with a busty, nymphomaniac milf barmaid; and while last night I certainly had the time of my life, I'm certain that any bones I possessed in my pelvic region have been pounded to dust. Oh well, anything to cure myself of that dreadful disease called virginity. Still lying in bed, with the sleeping blonde holding on to me, I smile (in a thoroughly evil way, I'm sure); I'd bet whatever money I have, or had in Gringotts that the aurors' night wasn't nearly as pleasant as mine, provided they already know what happened. If I could make my way to the island undetected, I'd go there just to see their reactions to everything that happened there: the dementors, the guys I killed, how they were killed...
I expect someone from the ministry to arrive today to check things out, they can't be that incompetent. Maybe they even arrived yesterday, after all Tonks called and didn't receive an answer. It doesn't really matter, I'll watch them being terrified and making complete asses out of themselves when I have the time and if I feel like it. Right now, I have other, much more important things on my mind, like a certain blonde that woke up a couple of seconds ago and has started to use her tongue to revive me. I run my hands trough her hair and grab it, forcing her to take my member deeper into her mouth. With my last coherent thoughts, I silently sent a prayer of thanks to whatever gods that cared to listen that my new abilities provided me with the stamina of a raging bull; I sure as hell was going to need it.
This time, however, the ministry aurors were a bit more diligent than they had been in the past; the ministry had had bad experiences concerning Azkaban after all. The escape of Sirius Black and, a couple of years later the mass breakout of death eaters, all during Fudges tenure as minister gave the prison a worse reputation than ever. Not only it was Hell on earth and watched by soul sucking fiends, but also the really dangerous criminals didn't tend to stay for long. So, it was understandable that Azkaban was a sore point to the current minister, Rufus Scrimgeour; although he was a man of action, with loads more experience in law enforcement than Fudge, he was first and foremost a politician, and like all politicians, he tended to cling to their power in detriment of everything else, even if he stood at Hell's gates. Rufus considered that another breakout would place him in the same level of competence as Fudge in the eyes of the public, something he, of course, wanted to avoid at all costs, and it was also the reason why every ministry worker avoided reporting anything concerning Azkaban to the man.
You see, although he demanded to be informed of everything going on in the prison, whenever the slightest problem was mentioned, such as the need to send more supplies to the island, the dwindling stocks of toilet paper or an auror guard requesting an early leave from duty, the minister first shouted for five minutes at whoever reported it, then he tended to overreact badly; one time, one of the aurors stationed in the mainland garrison was supposed to make his daily report, but thought it was ok to take a dump first, after all it would only be a delay of ten to fifteen minutes, provided of course he wasn't constipated. Unfortunately, Rufus Scrimgeour was inspecting the Auror HQ that day, and the delay was immediately noticed by a rookie auror trying to suck up to the minister and trying to act competent.
So, when the ministry's aurors tried contacting the cabin and couldn't (one guy in the john, the other asleep), the result was thirty something aurors storming a rotting shack, nearly giving the sleeping guy a coronary, and catching one of their own hastily pulling up his trousers after taking a crap.
That was why no one reported anything about Azkaban to the minister anymore; sure, communication failed some times, but it was usually one of the frequent storms in the area interfering, or the aurors in the cabin passing out after one too many shots of Old' Ogden's.
This time, however, shit did happen, and Scrimgeour was notified with a twelve-hour delay, and was understandably pissed off about it. Kingsley, who was the auror in command at the time everything happened, was now being subjected to having to listen to the minister's dulcet tone of voice; fifty insults, seventy obscenities and countless threats later, in which a job transfer to Siberia was implied, the great Scrimgeour finally had the brilliant idea of asking what had happened.
Kingsley knew he had it coming. He had delayed this information for more than twelve hours, and he knew that he should have investigated it immediately after his men failed to present their daily report; it's just that he knew how this particular duty affected his men's psyche, and the amount of stress pilled on them, having to live in this place with the prisoners and the dementors; taking the Dark Lord and his war into account, and the fact that the prison was one of his targets and that they could get hit at any time, many aurors had to be threatened into undertaking guard duty in the prison, and even that sometimes failed. Kingsley didn't want to check on the situation because he didn't feel like stumbling in on a couple of drunks, that would then have to be reprimanded, or catching another of his co-workers relieving themselves.
And Kingsley also knew that Scrimgeour was as ineffective as Fudge had been, despite the attempts he made to look competent. He shouted more loudly than Fudge, was much more intimidating, and had the advantage of not soiling himself at the first sign of trouble, unlike his predecessor; this didn't change the fact that the man was a fool. Unfortunately for Kingsley, this fool was also the minister, and therefore, his boss, and he was also storming up to the prison's gates to meet him.
"NOW, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED HERE?" thundered the minister, red faced and panting with the effort of bullying his underling.
"I don't know minister, that's why I called the Unspeakables." replied Kingsley.
"ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY, SHACKLEBOLT?"
"No sir, I really don't know what happened." said Kingsley calmly. Before Scrimgeour could work himself into a new rant he added, "All we know is that someone came from the island, presumably from the prison, took the boat to the mainland, and killed the two aurors stationed there. We also assume the same person to be responsible for the death of one of the aurors in the boathouse and the disappearance of the other."
"Disappearance? Who disappeared?" demanded Scrimgeour.
"David Williamson, one of the aurors on duty at the time." said Kingsley.
"How do you know this Williamson didn't do all this then? And for that matter, how do you know it was someone from the island?"
Kingsley held back a sigh, thinking about the stupidity of the man in front of him, and answered, "Auror Hope, who was at the boathouse with Williamson, was found impaled on the rocks below the boathouse. Since the structure is supported and maintained by magic, the floorboards wouldn't simply break with his weight, which leads us to the conclusion that someone or something caused him to break through the floor, using quite a bit of force to do it. As for Williamson, we found a corpse being thrown against the rocks by the waves; I'm waiting for someone to confirm his identity, since the body was unrecognisable due to the amount of times it was smashed."
"And we know it was someone from the island, because we found the boat on the mainland, and as you know, regulation dictates that unless there's a transportation scheduled, which there wasn't, the boat stays anchored in Azkaban."
"What about inside the prison? Why are you all out here doing nothing when you could be trying to find out if some prisoner escaped? Couldn't you think of that on your own, Shacklebolt?" spat Scrimgeour.
"If you bothered to take a look at the prison's gates, sir..." replied Kingsley, tired of the man's attitude problem.
Seeing Scrimgeour's dumbfounded and stupefied expression was all the reward Kingsley needed.
Albus Dumbledore was going through some paperwork when green flames suddenly appeared on his fireplace, showing the face of Nymphadora Tonks.
"Professor, do you have some time to spare? I'm afraid there's a situation in Azkaban that requires your assistance." said Tonks.
"Of course, ms. Tonks!" replied the old man in a calm tone, though he was internally alarmed at the possibility of another escape. 'Please don't let be him, it's too soon!'. "Whatever is the matter?"
"It's better that you come take a look for yourself, professor. It took us long enough to convince minister Scrimgeour to ask you for help, and to be honest, you have to see it to believe it!" answered Tonks.
"Of course, I shall come over immediately!"
Indeed, one had to see to believe. The gates of Azkaban would surely be considered one of the marvels of the wizarding world, if one would look past their appearance and their purpose. There was no single object more heavily enchanted in the whole world, tons of iron went into it's construction, dozens of spells cast for days on end to insure it would be nearly impossible to be breached. They were virtually indestructible, and were well maintained, despite the rusty outlook, which is why even Dumbledore was struck dumb as he saw the gates melded together.
"Well, Dumbledore? What caused this?" asked Scrimgeour, his tone almost demanding an answer from the older wizard.
"I don't know. Nothing I can think of; no spell, no creature should be able to do this." he looked pensive for a moment, then said "It appears as if the gates were melt. Nothing short of dragonfire could do it, and even then it would take several hours to accomplish this." said Dumbledore.
"So, you're saying you don't really know, is that it? For all you know, it could be an escaped convict that did it." stated Scrimgeour smugly, as if he had scored a great victory over Dumbledore.
"Don't be ridiculous, Rufus." replied Dumbledore dryly "If there was a convict inside with so much power, I highly doubt he would've allowed himself to be captured in the first place. And I believe I already told you I don't know what could cause this; I suggest you actually listen to what people have to say when you question them instead of blocking everything off except for your own opinions. It would look better on your part, I think."
Anticipating a tantrum from the nearly apoplectic politician, Dumbledore continued "It would be better if we had the opinion of a specialist in this case. There is only one man still alive that took part in putting together these gates, and as luck would have it, he's a teacher at Hogwarts." turning to one of the auror's, he said "Commander Shacklebolt, might I suggest you contact professor Filius Flitwick and ask him to come here?"
Kingsley nodded and ran off to do just that, not only to speed things up, but also to escape the ravings of Scrimgeour, furious at being swept aside once again by Dumbledore.
I wave my buxom blonde goodbye as I leave her pub, with a standing invitation to come back whenever I pass this way. I may just do that, if I have the time. Well, time isn't in short supply for me, but I have other interests to pursue other than her D-cups. Like killing, maiming, maiming and then killing, spill some blood, spill a lot of blood, hack limbs apart, rip off heads with my bare hands, etc, etc, the list goes on and on. I also like to pass my time imagining the deaths that will soon befall my dear friends.
Oh, the possibilities. There's so many ways I'd like to kill them that I think I'll be unhappy with whichever I choose. Take that annoying Colin Creepy, the camera freak. If I boil him alive, then I won't be able to perform the Death of One Thousand Cuts on him, nor will I be able to quarter him. Well, I could, but he'd already be dead, so what would be the fucking point? It's a damn shame I can only kill them once.
Whistling and in high spirits, I decide to leave the village and see what the Three Hundred Stooges are doing. Maybe I'll reveal myself right here and now, or maybe I'll just fuck around with their minds, if they even have any, or maybe I'll sit back to watch the fruits of my labour and those guys making asses out of themselves – always a good thing.
Before I could actually leave, however, I saw two policemen asking questions to a group of people. I didn't need enhanced hearing to figure out what they were asking about – the mysterious disappearance of Muggle Malfoy. I hid in the shadows of the very same alley where, the day before, the aforementioned grease ball met his end. I could hear them perfectly despite the distance, and all was going well until one of those fish smelling yokels opened his fucking mouth to tell the Bobbies that there was a stranger in the village, that had coincidentally arrived the same day the rich bastard disappeared.
I was not worried, after all what could they do to me? They couldn't find any evidence, and even if they could, even if they accused me, how would they capture me? How would they imprison me? What a laugh. Still, I was pissed, and decided to capture the fisherman's face in my memory so I could pay him a little visit in the future.
Professor Flitwick was a young man when he participated in the construction of Azkaban's Gates; in fact, it was his first job after attaining his Charms Mastery. As he surveyed the damage done, he corroborated Dumbledore's words; only dragonfire would stand a chance of actually damage the gates by melting them, and it would take an adult dragon several hours of constant assaulting to produce similar results to those presented to them.
"Well, now what? How do we get in?" asked Shacklebolt.
"The gates are strong, but the rest of the prison isn't as strong. We'll find some weak point in the structure and blast our way in!" stated Scrimgeour.
Sighing, Dumbledore turned to the minister and said, "As you well know, minister, attacking any other point other than the gates, or blasting your way in, as you so elegantly put it, will require us to cause the collapse of the wards around the prison, giving the opportunity to any of the prisoners who might still be relatively strong to apparate away. Wards that will take weeks to replace."
"THEN WHAT DO YOU THINK WE SHOULD DO, DUMBLEDORE? SIT BACK AND RELAX, AND HOPE THIS PROBLEM GOES AWAY?" shouted Scrimgeour.
"One of your department heads, Arthur Weasley, has a son working in a dragon reserve in Romania. If you would contact him, you might get some help from the people of the reserve. The best way to enter the prison right now, without resorting to collapsing the wards, would be to melt the gates some more, and for that we definitely need dragons."
Before anyone could reply, he added "We can also ask the dragon handlers if they have any news about an adult rogue dragon in this part of the world, or if any reserve has reported missing dragons."
The dragons eventually arrived. A pair of adults spat fire at the gates for hours, until it got dark, while Dumbledore and Flitwick occasionally threw a couple of unknown spells to see if they could speed things up. Several hours of heavy work later, they finally managed to breach the gates, enough for one person to squeeze through. Dumbledore prepared to enter the prison as well when a flare of light caught his eye, coming from the mainland. It was gone just as quickly, and the headmaster was left wondering if he actually saw anything.
"What's the problem, Albus?" asked Flitwick.
"Nothing, Filius." said Dumbledore, turning to look at the short professor "Let us proceed."
Just a few feet away stood a guardhouse, and at it's door, a couple of aurors and a minister, all looking a little sick. Dumbledore made his way inside the guardhouse, only to see one of his Order members staring vacantly ahead, one of his hands charred beyond recovery and separated from the rest of his arm. He also looked like he took a severe beating, if the state of his face and the puddles of blood on the floor were anything to go by; taking everything into consideration, Dumbledore couldn't blame the others for feeling queasy, he himself didn't feel good at all right now. The stench permeating the room didn't help.
"Peter? Can you hear me?" asked Dumbledore. The other man showed no signs of recognition, or any reaction. "We're here to take you home Peter, you're safe now!" this time, a hint of desperation could be heard from the old wizard.
Kingsley got close and said "It's no use, sir. He's been kissed. He's not wearing his pendant."
Dumbledore got a mournful look on his face at the death of another friend, but had no time to comment or reply, for the people still at the door started shouting and pulling out their wands. There was a swarm of dementors heading towards them, every dementor in the island seemed intent on charging them. The weakest among the ministry's group started trembling, whimpering and some passed out. The others prepared to fight.
"FIRE AT WILL! PATRONUS CHARM ONLY, NOTHING ELSE WORKS! FIRE!" thundered Scrimgeour.
Dozens of shouts of "Expecto Patronum!" filled the prison's hallways, and the streams of silver met the dementors; the black robed creatures wavered, but continued their advance. It took almost five minutes of uninterrupted casting to drive them back to the shadowy recesses of the ancient building. A third of the team was unable to do anything, due to overexposure to the dementors' auras; Scrimgeour ordered them taken outside so they could recover, but the minister himself was intent on staying.
"I will get to the bottom of this! And I'll start right now. I want a head count performed, and I want to know what the prisoners saw and heard! Move, people!" shouted Scrimgeour "I want teams of no less than seven people moving about, in case the dementors come back!"
"What got into those filthy beasts anyway?" the minister mumbled.
Dumbledore didn't answer; in fact he was not near the minister anymore. Scrimgeour barely had time to see Dumbledore's robes disappearing around a corner. 'Damn that man, where does he think he's going?' "Dumbledore!"
Dumbledore didn't even slow down. He was running down corridors and flights of steps as quickly as he could, towards a familiar destination; he had taken this route many times before: Third Underground Level, North Wing, sixth corridor, Cell number Thirteen. It was empty. The cell's door was stuck in the opposite wall, as if it had been blown off. There were no signs of the occupant.
Scrimgeour arrived a few seconds later, out of breath. Dumbledore leaned his back against the wall, all energy leaving him suddenly, as the implications of the current situation sank in. Scrimgeour was silent, a look of fury in his eyes. He knew who the cell used to hold, he too had done this trek many times in recent years.
"What do we tell them?" asked Scrimgeour, his pride and bluster momentarily forgotten.
"This information will end up leaking sooner or later, Rufus. My advice is simply to tell the truth." said Dumbledore.
"Harry Potter has escaped, and there's a very real possibility that he caused all this mess. There are no rogue dragons flying around Azkaban, Dumbledore, something or someone did that little number on the gates." he continued in a quieter tone of voice "There's nothing simple about this truth, Dumbledore. Nothing at all."
The man of the moment, Harry Potter, was sleeping in the woods. He got tired of waiting for the ministry's folks to do something relevant and/or amusing, so he decided to take a nap. He woke up at nightfall, mist and rain gone and a full moon rising, only to see the distant glare of fires on the island.
'Still couldn't get inside? Pathetic, really fucking pathetic.'
Suddenly, Harry tensed, as he realised someone was coming towards him. Walking, not running, but definitely towards him.
'Looks like someone's got a death wish. Oh, goody!'
Voldemort had heard the news about disturbances at the island, and, not being the cause of said disturbances, he was understandably curious, so he sent one of his Death Eaters to investigate.
Harry turned around and finally saw whom it was.
"Oh, ho! I can't fucking believe this!" said Harry loudly.
Twenty feet away, waving, with filthy grey hair, yellow claws and a smile as psychotic as Harry's, stood Fenrir Greyback.