Chapter I: As the Wizarding community circulates rumors of the Dark Lord's return, Dumbledore makes a visit to Azkaban to release a curious prisoner.

PART I

I.
Freedom
[Azkaban Prison | August 1995]

Azkaban prison, that hulking fortress of stone and solitude, braces itself against the pounding waves. A storm was raging outside, which almost prevents Albus Dumbledore, headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, from reaching the place without becoming soaked to the bone. Waiting in the small dark reception area for him is Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, and a burly bailiff fumbling with a large ring of ancient iron keys. Fudge looks relieved at Dumbledore's arrival, but his smile is short-lived. Soon he's narrowing his eyes at the headmaster.

"You know Albus, the day will eventually come when you can't get exactly what you want whenever you ask for it." Fudge's bitterness refuses to be masked.

"Oh this isn't about me, Cornelius. I'm sure you know the history of this case, the mishandling of evidence, the utter disregard of proper procedure..."

"Yes yes I've been informed..." Fudge says grumpily as they follow the bailiff up the stairwell. The rain lashes through the glassless windows, forming muddy puddles on the stone floors. Filthy place—lit by torches, whose flames were reflected in the pools at their feet creating the illusion of walking through fire. They turn down a long hallway lined with iron bars. Many of the prisoners are asleep, or just lying there, a few leer at Fudge and Dumbledore as they pass. They stop at a cell a little more than halfway to the end of the hall. Albus approaches the bars. The withered woman inside is motionless, staring at a point just over his shoulder.

"Miss Spektor? Victoria?" Dumbledore says, looking her straight in the eyes. No motion, no recognition. Again he says her name. Still nothing. He waves his hands, but her gaze does not follow. She's crouched on the ground, charcoal hair hanging limply to her knees. "We've come to talk with you. Have you got a moment?"

"Oh yeah?" The woman grunts softly, shifting her gaze ever so slightly. "I've got nothing but time. What's on your mind?" She inquires, still as a stone statue, her eyes dim in the flickering light. Albus sizes up the woman uneasily, apparently now doubting his plan. But he carries on.

"Your case was reopened due to mishandling of evidence and lack of proper criminal procedure." Dumbledore reports. Spektor stares at him blankly. "And you've been found innocent. Or, well, evidence was insufficient to prove you guilty. However you prefer to look at it. At any rate, you're free to go."

"Is this some kind of sick joke?" She spits, rising to her feet and dragging her shackled feet towards the bars that separate her from the two men. The chains cut deep groves in the dirt-caked floor.

"Seems like it to me." Fudge sighs languidly, "But it is true. You are...innocent in the eyes of the court...We're releasing you into the custody of Albus Dumbledore, who will be your guardian until the court-appointed period of supervision elapses."

Victoria Spektor looks from the portly Minister of Magic to the tall, silver-bearded Headmaster of Hogwarts. Whatever they were playing at doesn't matter too much to her, to be honest. All she can think about is that she's being given a second chance. Whether she deserves one is irrelevant.

"Albus, I think you're the one making a grave mistake here." Fudge says.

"Perhaps I am." Dumbledore motions for the bailiff to unlock Spektor's cell, and the shackles around her ankles. As soon as the chains drop to the floor she stretches her arms above her head in a great sweeping motion, as if awaking from a long sleep. After adjusting her grubby tunic, she walks stiffly from her cell and down the hall, flanked by Dumbledore and Fudge. Along the way the prisoners still locked away in their cells catcall, and in response she brazenly brandishes her middle finger, upon which is a gold ring with a black stone set in the center, glinting in the torchlight.

From the North Sea to a sleepy London borough in the late August pre-dawn. A warm wind was stirring the hedgerows as Dumbledore and Victoria "V." Spektor approached a shabby rowhouse. Barely a soul out. Not a light on in the other homes that line the incongruously well-kept streets. Albus taps the black painted door with his wand and it creaks open. Inside is damp, dark, and she follows him deep into the bowels of the place, the floorboards sighing under their careful footsteps. They descend a rickety set of stairs into the kitchen, and Albus puts the kettle on. The sun's just coming up, not that either of them would know it, being that there are no windows down there, and all the others in the place are hung with thick drapery. Spektor eases herself down into one of the stiff-backed wooden chairs at the kitchen table. She was experiencing a bit of sensory overload. Having been chained to a wall for forty-some-odd years, you don't often get a change in scenery. Not to mention she's still in mild shock as to her sudden change in luck, if you could call it that. While the kettle boils, Albus is busying himself at the fire, placing a fresh log on the pile and lighting it with a minuscule flick of his wand. She takes a long, deep breath, filling her lungs with steam and woodsmoke.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Spektor abruptly speaks, causing Dumbledore to jump. Her voice is gravelly, and much harsher than he remembers. She coughs into her palm.

"Well, since the court has appointed me your guardian, I thought it might be a good idea for you to fill one of the vacant posts at Hogwarts…" There's a deep, wide silence between them, during which Spektor blinks at the old man as if this is just another element of the elaborate joke she's found herself the butt of. "I thought you could be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor." Dumbledore says, sitting down across from her after setting down a teapot and two cups. She can't help but laugh. It's colder, dryer, than he remembers.

"Excuse me, but are you mad?" She says, her voice cracking. "I've been locked up for a lifetime in Azkaban...and you're going to have me...teach kids…Defense Against the Dark Arts of all things?"

"I trust you're an expert on the subject." Dumbledore says pleasantly.

"How can one be an expert when they've spent the majority of their lives in prison? You seem to forget I was arrested when I was…how old…nineteen? I…don't remember…" She frowns, realizing as well that she doesn't know how old she is currently. "What are you playing at?" She narrows her eyes.

"In these difficult and dangerous times, it's important to have the best faculty instructing our students, to prepare them adequately for what they will face..." Dumbledore says, stirring milk into his tea with a small silver spoon. "Your expertise would be invaluable for our cause."

"Naturally." She twists the ring on her middle finger, a nervous tick, and looks down in her lap. "You've got no other options, I take it? At the end of your rope, so to speak?"

"Oh I wouldn't say that." Dumbledore says, frowning. "But you could prove very helpful, if you were inclined to assist me. He Who Must Not Be Named is growing stronger by the day. It's only a matter of time..."

"And if I decline..."

"I think that would be most unwise..."

"Of course." She nods stiffly. "I'll do what I must." Dumbledore was looking for a much more promising attitude, but he's got to take what he can get. He extends his hand for a shake, and she begrudgingly takes it, her grip listless, her eyes cast down.

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you continue to read, please review. As a novice writer, all feedback is greatly appreciated!