Harry Potter and the Second War: Book 3

Harry Potter and the Second War: Book 3.

An Awful Shadow

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. Everything you don't recognise is mine. The title comes from Percy Shelley's Hymn to Intellectual Beauty

'The awful shadow of some unseen Power

Floats though unseen among us'

Summary: Having found out that Voldemort is still alive, Harry begins to train for his inevitable return. However, there are distractions in the return of the man who betrayed his family, a sadistic killer with a grudge, and some uncomfortable revelations about some of his nearest and dearest.

Warnings – AU, violence, some swearing. Third in a series, so read the previous two first. This is where the deviations from canon become more obvious, and will contain the scenes that originally inspired the whole series – so I hope you all enjoy it!

Prologue: The Prisoner of Azkaban

Azkaban was a vile place. The mere mention of its name could inspire terror in the strongest people, and the guards were the source of nightmares for magical children all over the United Kingdom. It was situated somewhere in the North sea, away from Muggle shipping lanes, in a spot that would be found on no Muggle map, protected by wards and spells that turned Muggles away. Those who were imprisoned there were the dregs of society; the serial killers, the rapists, the dangerous Dark wizards. The Death Eaters.

Built in the panopticon style, it was a circular building that looked as if it had just been dropped onto the island, that was more of a lump of rock jutting out of the sea. There were teams of Aurors and Unspeakable commandos patrolling the walls, while the infamous Dementors stalked the internal corridors. A single team of warders watched the prisoners through the slats of the central column. The corridors almost always rang to the shrieks of the prisoners, most of whom went mad within the first few months of their imprisonment. Not even those who retained their sanity left unchanged. Prisoner welfare concern was non-existent. The homeless fed on better food than the inmates. Very occasionally, roughly twice a year, they were taken out of their cells – individually, never in groups – for some exercise. Not for nothing was it said that the only way to distinguish between Azkaban and Hell was the temperature.

That evening, there was, perhaps naturally, a storm. The Aurors and Unspeakables patrolling the walls hunched themselves into their cloaks, constantly renewing warming charms. The wind howled around them, sweeping through the cracks in the walls and blowing around the cells. The warders in the central column were feeling nervous; it was far too quiet tonight. One of them, in an effort to displace her anxiety, began her patrol early. She put on the bewitched glasses that would allow her to see the prisoners in bright light, without being seen herself, and set off.

As she approached the highest level of the column, she shivered in disgust. This was the level where the Death Eaters were kept. Whereas the previous ten levels had been almost deathly silent, here the silence was broken by raucous cackling. She circled the room, looking in at them.

Bellatrix Lestrange, You-Know-Who's right hand woman and, rumour had it, occasional lover. She was chewing on a rat, which was still alive, judging by the way it was moving, with a look of genuine glee on her face. She had been strong, holding onto her sanity for almost three years. But when it had gone, it had gone swiftly and viciously. She was now barely capable of human speech, communicating via a series of grunts and shrieks.

Rodolphus Lestrange, her husband. He still kept hold of his sanity much of the time, and held the record for the most number of escape attempts in the prisons history.

Augustus Rookwood, a simpering former Ministry employee, found to be passing secrets to the Death Eaters. His time in Azkaban had brought about several nervous twitches. As the guard watched him, a Dementor floated past his cell. When it left, he was on the floor, sobbing his eyes out and scratching at his face in madness.

Edgar Selwyn, a vicious thug who had once ripped a man's arm off before beating him to death with it. He had once tried to rape the guard who had brought him his food.

Caitlyn Dolohov, who had pioneered the use of household charms in torture. She was humming softly to herself, probably remembering her dead husband, Antonin.

Decus Yaxley, who would have been imprisoned even without the mark on his arm; it had been discovered when he was arrested after forcing himself on a young girl.

The guard shook her head as she moved away from the 'famous' ones, looking in at the others. So many of them, willing to sacrifice their lives for a madman. All of them had been altered, mentally and physically by their incarceration. Except one.

Evan Rosier.

She was unable to suppress a shiver as she looked in at his cell. Although the rigours of life in Azkaban had changed him physically, he was still handsome. And he was still in the same mental condition he had been when he had been imprisoned, a month after You-Know-Who's fall from power. Of course, few people believed that he had been sane before his arrest, so perhaps there was nothing for him to lose. He was lying on his back, apparently unconcerned by his predicament. He scared her. She had been responsible for delivering his food a few times, and he was always polite, enquiring after her and her family – enquiries that were never answered. Even if it hadn't been policy, she had heard about the family he had befriended several years ago. Two weeks later, they had been found, their corpses left posed around the dinner table, the room flooded with their blood. He was a complete sadist, and he committed his crimes with a boyish gleam in his eye.

She took one last look around the tower, then retreated to the warmth of the guard room.

Evan Rosier grinned as the guard left. The whole point of the panopticon design was that the prisoners couldn't tell when they were being watched; it enforced discipline by making them assume that they were always being watched. However, Rosier had a distinct advantage. He was, to his shame, not totally Pureblood. Back in the dim and distant past, the Rosier bloodline had been contaminated. While this was a shameful event, it had left all future Rosier's with a very useful ability. They could smell magic.

All wizards could feel magic to some degree, letting them know how powerful someone was, assuming no-one used shields. Rosier just had an edge on other people. And in such a magically starved environment as Azkaban, it was easy to sense some new trace of magic arriving. He knew precisely when a guard was watching him, and could always be on his best behaviour. He was not on his best behaviour tonight. Evan Rosier had a plan, a plan that had taken years to sort out and train for, while avoiding the watchful guards. All he needed was suitable motivation, and that had arrived a few nights ago. He had been looking out at the sea, when a sudden shocking pain had exploded in his wrist. In his Dark Mark. He knew the others had felt it too, but they lacked his focus, his dedication. Tonight was the night.

He began to shout, screaming for help, rolling off his bed, clutching at his stomach. He chewed down on his tongue between screams, chewing until he drew blood, which he allowed to dribble from his mouth onto the rags that made up his uniform. After about ten minutes, a bridge extended from the central tower, two guards walking across it. They came and stood at the door to his cell, shining wand-light in at him.

"What's wrong with you? Well, speak up!"

Rosier raised his head, letting them see his bloody face. He moaned for good measure, coughing out more blood. One of the guards stepped back in disgust.

"Fuck. Suicide attempt?"

"Who gives a shit? Let's get him downstairs…"

The door opened, and the guards walked in, wands raised. One bent down to pick Rosier up, and that was when he flicked his arm out, lashing out with a blast of wandless magic. The rear guard was thrown backwards, his spine snapping against the stone door-frame. His head lolled forward as he fell to the floor. The guard who had bent over Rosier was thrown back as well, and Rosier grabbed his wand as the guard staggered to his feet. The guard looked at him in fear.

"Thank you so much for your assistance kind sir. You've been most helpful, ah… Suckling is it? But, much as it pains me, I'm afraid I can't have you following me. Abrumpo!"

Before the man had time to blink, the spell had torn through his neck, and his head fell to the floor. It rolled away, over the ledge outside the cell, falling to the floor far below. Rosier imagined he could hear the thud over the wind. He grinned. He stepped forward to the doorway, laughing at the flash of lightning. He walked out of his cell, and the other Death Eaters began to laugh, screaming his name, and he basked in their admiration.

He flexed his fingers, casting all the concealment charms he could think of on himself. The tricky part was done with; getting past the guards shouldn't be too much of a problem now he was armed. He'd always taken pride in his combat abilities – almost avant-garde in the words of… Rosier snarled. The words of the traitor, the bastard who had tricked the Dark Lord into attacking Godric's Hollow. He would be found, and he would be destroyed.

And after that? Another search. The pain in his Dark Mark would let him know where to go, eventually. The Dark Lord was alive, and he was ready to be restored to his rightful place in life.

A/N: I don't really like explaining plot in notes, as it generally indicates lazy plotting in my experience. But since this is a) potentially confusing and b) relatively unimportant, I shall make an exception. Yes, I know that Rosier should be dead. Basically, I confused him with Rookwood, and by the time I realised, I'd posted a scene in Prophecies… featuring him in an important role. So he'll be sticking around, and I hope you'll all learn to love him…

Reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated.