Prologue

"Of the charge of four accounts of murder?"

". . . Guilty," the wall of faces above him chanted as one.

"Of the charge of conspiracy to murder?"

". . . Guilty," rang out the chant once more.

"And finally . . . of the charge of consorting with a known criminal, public enemy number one, mass murderer, rapist and terrorist, who has violated the laws of nature and of our country, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

Like the end of a prayer, the closing words of a solemn hymn, or perhaps the last sound in a deadly mantra, the verdict rang clear, echoing of the empty walls of the room.

"We find the defendant . . . Guilty."

"Then this court," announced the judge in a louder tone, his voice easily reaching the journalists and reporters who had until now been sitting in silent anticipation, and who now erupted into a flurry of scratching quills, "Guilty on all three charges. Based on the evidence presented here today, the defendant is sentenced to a lifetime imprisonment in the prison of Azkaban. May his punishment provide some sort of marginal compensation for his heinous crimes, and may his years there allow for him to repent in solitude."

There was a moment of silence broken not even by the restless scraping of quill on parchment.

"Then this court case for Harry James Potter . . . has been concluded."

It was as though a barrier, or perhaps some sort of charm, had been placed over the crowd when they first came in, ensuring their silence, had been lifted. The room that had been so quiet that one could hear the drop of a ping now erupted in pandemonium as each and every person stood in their shouts and raised their voices in a cacophony of chaos. They did not shout their support of the defendant, however, despite who he was. Instead, they jeered and taunted him, swore and insulted him, they told him they hated him, that everyone would hate him and still hate him in a hundred years time, they told him that he deserved what he got, they told him that they hoped he rotted. . .

And in the midst of it all, one girl sat still, her warm brown eyes watering with tears that never fell, even as her body was still rigid with shock. Those who knew her, even her closest confidants whom she used to tell everything, took no notice of her due to their immersion in the current events. Though her head didn't even twitch, the girl followed the defendant with her gaze as he was led in chains out of the box and through the door at the back of the room, where she lost sight of him. Even then, she did not move, did not let those jostling her with their movements affect her, as she stared straight ahead.

The defendant knew none of this. If the girl had been shocked, then he was many times more so. The guards, tired of his lack of response, dragged him from the room and through that back door, down the hallway and towards the cells. They opened one, shoved him in and locked the door. Then they left, leaving him in darkness as they returned to the light. The defendant knew none of this, for he only stared straight ahead.

For three days, he sat on his cot. He did not remember climbing to his feet, but he must have, for it was as though all he had ever known had been wiped from his memory, until all he could recall was sitting on that bed in the darkness, staring at the wall that he could only just make out. By the time they came for him, he could have drawn it from memory, down to the smallest scratch, from memory.

He did not remember sleeping, but he must have. The human body, as far as he knew, almost definitely could not go for that long without any sleep. He didn't sleep much, however. No doubt there was plenty of time for that during his sentence.

On the third day, there were footsteps in the hallway. The clunk of the keys were heard and his cell door swung open, to reveal a different set of guards. They cuffed him and dragged him through the hallways that seemed to him like a maze, until they came to a small room. There was a metal bar lying on the floor, which they forced him to grab, with them holding on to either end. The defendant felt a jerk behind his navel, a disorientating sensation of being stuck in a whirlwind, and then his feet touched the ground. He wasn't used to standing, so he collapsed.

tThe guards weren't patient. They kicked him in the ribs and dragged him to his feed. They led him through yet more corridors, these ones made of what looked like solid stone, descending deeper and deeper into the fortress of Azkaban. Once they had reached their destination, which the defendant had absolutely no idea of, they shoved him into yet another cell.

The dementors had long since left Azkabban to join Voldemort, but even so, the walls still spoke of unmentionable and undeniable sadness. The air itself tasted of it.

The door slammed once again, but this time, there was light, coming from a single, barred windows right up against the roof. Only this time, because of the chill, the defendant wished there was no window at all. It was too cold.

The first day, he thought they would come get him eventually, realise there had been some mistake. After a week passed, he thought they had found new evidence and were currently investigating it. After that he lost track of time, but he knew they were coming for him, sooner or later.

It must have been more than a month after he had been incarcerated that he acknowledged the truth that he already knew but simply ignored. They weren't coming, and they never would be coming for him, because to them, he was a criminal.

And so the Boy-Who-Lived went to Azkaban.