The Sybil's Oracle: Book Three

Chapter 10

By Pigwidgeon37

“Nothing could possibly be more desolate than the Isle of Azkaban. Even without the dubious fame of housing the western hemisphere’s most impregnable wizarding prison, the barren, hostile aspect of this enormous piece of rock would be enough to inspire fear in the hearts of the bravest.

Azkaban has its own sinister history. Like an Ignis Fatuus, it appears here and there in descriptions of seafaring adventures, written from hearsay by learned monks who never left the relative comfort of their cells. People used to travel a lot during the Dark and Middle Ages, and the convents—centres of power and riches back in those turbulent times—offered shelter to itinerant beggars and rich travellers alike. Convents were havens, sanctuaries in a world turned upside down by migrations and rampaging hordes, but they were also beacons of culture, proud bearers of the banner of a heritage that would otherwise have been eroded and submerged by constant war. Those havens were rife with stories told by their guests, and some of those tales—not necessarily the more truthful ones, as their truth could not be ascertained, and colour and exotic detail were far more important than verisimilitude—found their way into the libraries; written during interminable hours, on vellum so fine that the quill glided smoothly across its surface, then adorned by images more fantastic than the original tale, and finally completed by learned comments and citations taken from the Holy Bible or the Fathers of the Church. Mud turned into gems. It was a truly alchemistic process.

Some of the more adventurous seafarers, or simply the less fortunate ones who had been blown off course by a storm, told the monks about an island. They probably had to cross themselves, over and over again, when they mentioned this place, this cursed piece of rock, which seemed to be everybody’s nightmare come true. Some of the sources mention its strange form; if one approached the island from south-west, it resembled the upper half of a head—the tip of its nose only visible when the tide was low—with two short, blunt horns. Small wonder that the sailors called it the Devil’s Head. But seafarers have always been a superstitious lot; to pronounce the devil’s name meant to call him. And if you called him you might see him. Or the upper part of his head, turned to stone and half-hidden by the boiling waves of the Atlantic. To see him, or the huge monolith he had solidified himself into, meant almost certain death. Thus, it became a habit among the Norse sailors, who were the first to venture out there into the unknown, to cast lots before the departure. If came up in that order, and especially if the signs were reversed, only the recklessly stupid would have set out on a journey towards the West. For the first rune, with the phonetic value “A” or “As”, stood for Odin, the powerful but duplicitous God, and if reversed, that rune indicated the worst of lucks, because you had Odin against you. The second one, pronounced “K”, originally the pictogram for a beacon or torch, signified vision or revelation. Needless to say that its contrary predicted visions of the more terrifying kind. Then there was the third, corresponding to “P”—mysterious and ambiguous even when it pointed the right way, it expressed loneliness and desolation if it pointed left instead of right. The last one, the “N”, was fickle too, even at the best of times. For it spoke of standstill, of the times when the sails hung slack and sad from their masts, when the sailors would get rowdy with impatience and forced idleness. That dreaded combination of runes was the origin of the name of Azkaban, and even the monks, who usually avoided anything to do with pagan cults or divination like the plague, preferred its transcription to the “Caput Diaboli” or “Satanakephalon” they might have used otherwise.

Back in the times before the wizarding and Muggle worlds drifted apart, before magic folk were subjected to the ordeal and burned on the stake, there were wizards among the learned monks, and there were wizards who earned their lives as sailors or captains—Apparating was a skill not many wizards possessed, and those who knew how to project themselves through space on the wings of light were careful to keep their knowledge secret. The others had to travel the Muggle way. Unlike their non-magical peers, the wizard-sailors knew, of course, exactly what was wrong with Satanakephalon or Azkaban. It had nothing to do with curses, or hellish demons, or whichever fairy-tale explanations the simple-minded came up with. The solid formation of rock was merely situated exactly above the crossing point of seven—although some claimed there were nine of them—currents of particularly nefarious telluric energy. Animals, whether airborne or of the water, absolutely avoided the island, since their navigating skills were superior to those of human beings on their clumsy vessels. There were no birds circling high above the smooth, rocky surface or nesting in the washed-out crevices; they would have starved to death, had they tried to exist on the Devil’s Head, for there were no fish or other aquatic fauna for them to catch and eat. The lack of animal life led to an almost total absence of plants. A few reckless patches of moss—quite possibly carried there by the waves that had torn them from the planks of rotting ships—eked out their existence by clinging tenaciously to the porous stone, and the lower rim of the island was slimy with algae. Apart from those life forms—nothing. Most noticeably, no wind. The rune-casters had guessed right. There never was wind on Azkaban, and the only way of getting away from it, in case the currents had drawn a ship too close, was rowing for dear life. Quite literally.

In a fashion, Azkaban is the exact contrary of Hogwarts, where the humming of positive energy is almost audible and attracts animals and beasts that can be found nowhere but in the Forbidden Forest.

When the witch-hunts began, magical folk retreated into their own world. The Muggles, on the other hand, continued on their path of inventions and innovations; they rediscovered what had been known for countless millennia; they learned how to read the sky, thus their excursions became bolder but easier as well. Azkaban, the bane of their ancestors, became a legend, more and more distant until it was completely forgotten.

This suited the wizards to perfection.

After they had closed themselves off hermetically from the Muggles—maybe also in the hopes of more peaceful times to come—they found out that theirs was by no means a perfect world. There were Goblin Rebellions and Elf Revolutions. The wizards left the battlefield as victors but at enormous cost. And the price to pay was higher than they had recognized at first sight: Goblins and Elves were powerful, cunning warriors, and thus new spells, curses and potions had to be developed. Like all weapons, they did not vanish into thin air once the war was over, and suddenly the magical community saw themselves confronted with Dark Magic. Power struggles between the old and influential families erupted, and soon the necessity of dealing with criminals of all shades of the spectrum of delinquency presented itself.

The name of the wizard who first thought of the possibility of using the Isle of Azkaban for that purpose has been buried under the quicksand of history. Maybe he was the descendant of a wizard monk, many of whom had fled their convents once the conflict between catholic orthodoxy and magical heritage had begun, taking with them their knowledge and precious volumes from the libraries. In any case, an expedition set out to the Devil’s Head, in a ship propelled by magic and with hundreds of recently enslaved elves—ancestors of the modern House Elves—crammed into its belly. Within a month, the fortress of Azkaban had been erected. The diabolic tiara crowning the Satanakephalon.

Many wizards of that period knew of Azkaban’s existence and sinister fame; only very few, though, had an idea of the etymology of its name. The then-Minister of Magic, an ex-Slytherin by the name of Ventigius Pembroke, decided to take advantage of this blank space on the map of magical knowledge. Not only was he a resourceful politician, renaissance style, he also was a very erudite man who spoke Latin, Greek, Arab and Hebrew, and thus able to commit an act of forgery as brilliant as it was useful: he fabricated a letter allegedly written by Pliny the Younger to the Emperor Trajan, while the former was Roman proconsul in the province of Bithynia. Into this document, which contained lots of the kind of routine information the province governor periodically submitted to his sovereign, Pembroke inserted a short anecdote about a Jewish merchant full of the strangest stories, among them the description of an uncanny, gloomy island far beyond the Pillars of Hercules. Its name was composed of תכש—Hebrew for ‘forget’—and הןב, which is the Hebrew word for ‘build’.  It meant, so ‘Pliny’ explained, something like ‘I have built oblivion’, and could be roughly transcribed as “Aeskaban”. The Jewish merchant, as ‘Pliny’ humorously commented, probably believed that God had put it there, as a point of no return. People who went near it would forget about their dreams of proceeding any further.

The fake letter was then successfully discovered, and from that moment on, the true and much more terrible meaning of the name started to fade into oblivion. In a way, Pembroke had created a self-fulfilling prophecy. He had built oblivion.

The new wizard prison gradually filled with criminals, although most of them were unfortunate younger brothers or illegitimate children, whom their families saw fit to dispose of, rather than Dark Wizards. The concentration of adverse chthonic energy on the island drove many of them insane or leeched their magical resources, and those who managed to escape were quickly swallowed by the ever-greedy sea. Those who chose to remain in their prison cells instead of entrusting their lives to the waves were surveyed and nourished by elves—not House Elves, but the more stubborn individuals who had refused enslavement, only to be banished and bound to the Isle of Azkaban.

For about three centuries, things went rather smoothly. Then came Grindelwald, and with him a new generation of Dark Wizards. Maybe cleverer, but certainly more alert than their law-abiding peers, they had attentively followed the evolution of Muggle science and technology. They found most of it useless, but some ideas seemed worth pursuing. They saw bombs and grenades, and developed curses that could kill hundreds. They saw biochemical weapons, and fabricated potions a mere drop of which destroyed the water supply of an entire city. They were pioneers of evil. In the end, Dumbledore and his followers brought them down. But what to do with those they had captured? For all its doomsday appeal, Azkaban was not likely to hold them prisoners for long. Of course, anti-Apparition wards had been put into place a hundred years ago; and when the Muggles started crossing the ocean aboard their strange, humming contraptions flying so high that they seemed to be insects, the island had also been made unplottable. But everybody was aware that these precautions were not going to prevent the new convicts from escaping.

Again, the person who first had the idea of using Dementors as guards remains incognito. But one marrow-freezing February day in 1945, they were suddenly there. As was to be expected, they thrived on the currents of energy vibrating underneath the fortress-prison. One might escape the elf-guards, one might brave the thousand-feet height of the outer walls, one might survive the vertiginous slide down the rock and into the water, and even the water temperature. But nobody escaped the Dementors. Azkaban was inescapable. The wizarding world was safe.”

After finishing his tale, Severus emptied the glass of water he had previously put on the windowsill.

Nimue raised her head. “That was… beautiful,” she said. Her eyes were wide and dreamy.

“Beautiful? I would rather call it frightening.”

“Yes. Yes, the content is frightening, but you told it beautifully. Like when I was still little…”

“I would hardly tell this to a child as a good-night story. Most children would have nightmares afterwards.”

She gave him a half-smile and sipped thoughtfully at her pumpkin juice. “Probably. Then again, children don't have that kind of imagination. At least I didn’t. I mean—” she put her glass next to his “—think of all those fairy tales. Queens dancing in red-hot iron shoes until they’re dead. People eaten by wolves. Witches keeping children in cages, feeding them to fatten them up and eat them. Stepmothers poisoning their stepdaughters. It’s the pictures, you know?”

“What exactly do you mean by pictures?”

“I meant that a child can’t imagine such things without seeing a picture that illustrates it. If there’s no picture of the queen’s feet, there will be no nightmare. Speaking of images: have you ever been there?”

“Azkaban, you mean?” She nodded. “No, I have never been there. It hasn’t yet given me nightmares.”

“But it will, won’t it?”

“Maybe. But probably not tonight. This is merely a reconnaissance mission, and if we have an encounter with Dementors, we should be able to destroy them. If your theory is correct.”

She scrutinized him for a long time. “Are you afraid?”

“Not really. No. Not tonight.” It was a lie. He hoped she would not recognize it as such. His mind drifted back to the night of the Third Task, when Fudge had come to Hogwarts with a Dementor in tow. To have one that close—the year before, he had successfully avoided any contact, for he had been forewarned—had almost frightened him to death; images of Clarissa, emaciated and dying, visions of his uncle, memories of all his betrayals and losses had tied him to the spot like ropes of soul-chilling fire. No, he did not look forward to meeting the Dementors tonight.

“Are you ever afraid of anything?” her voice broke through his thoughts.

“More than you would probably believe.” He gave her a weak smile. “And tonight…” His eyes were resting on Elias’s immobile form, perched on the windowsill and outlined against the night sky, blacker than black. Should he tell her about his suspicions? What good would it do? He was not going to find relief in confessing his fears to a girl, and she would only be more burdened. But she would understand… When he had discussed the matter with Lucius and Owen, they had, of course, understood too. More than that; they had recognized the risk and not hesitated to agree with his assessment that Black might be a time bomb in human form. They had understood, they had been as concerned as he was, they had tried to find possible solutions to the problem. Three soldiers, pinpointing danger and attempting to find a strategy. Most likely they feared this hypothesis to be true as much as he did. If he told her, though, the understanding would be of a different kind. Softer, perhaps. More tentative. After she had revealed her own feelings concerning Black, he would not get an indignant reaction; she was not going to defend Black. So maybe he could really…

“Then why are you looking so sombre?” She leaned forward and craned her neck, so as to get a glimpse of his face. He did not turn away. “There must be something on your mind.”

He turned his head a little, and their eyes met. Much to his surprise, she did not flinch. “Yes. There is something. But I must confess that I’m a little hesitant to tell you.”

He was even more surprised when she chuckled. “The only appropriate comment I can think of is: where is the real Professor Snape, and what have you done with him?”

“Very funny,” he snarled. “How many times have you already expressed your astonishment at the difference between my behaviour in the classroom and here?”

“I wasn’t aware of hurting you by… er, expressing my astonishment. Just look at it as revenge for your expressing the exact contrary.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My teeth, Professor. Remember the charming little scene down in the dungeon corridor? ‘I see no difference’? And just in case you were wondering, yes, that did hurt. Very much so.”

He was at a loss for words, and sharply turned his head away, to take in the treetops, perfectly still and covered in the silvery icing of moonlight. “It was supposed to,” he finally said.

“Oh, thanks,” came the sarcastic reply, “That really makes it so much better.”

“Sarcasm,” he said slowly, “only works to full effect if either you are not hurt, or if you manage to distance yourself sufficiently from your feelings. Otherwise, my dear Nimue, it just comes across as petty.”

“Thank you for the lesson, Professor. I’ll keep that in mind. So, why did you want to hurt me?”

“Because,” he said, emitting a long-suffering sigh and stretching his legs, “my many years of experience with girls your age have taught me that, if they are really humiliated, they run.”

“Slytherins too?”

He snorted. “Of course. We aren't a different species, you know.”

“No, but much better at sarcasm and therefore at distancing yourselves from your feelings.”

“Indeed. But that is an art almost as subtle as Potions, and has to be learned. Few possess that skill while they’re still very young.”

“Did you? I mean possess that skill?”

“I’m a fast learner,” was his dry reply. This was dangerous ground, very dangerous indeed. He had no intention of letting her further in. But obviously she had sensed that already.

“So you merely wanted me out of your way?”

“I wanted you out of the way, my dear. The atmosphere was charged enough as it was. No need to make things escalate, in case the other boys discovered their dormant chivalry.”

“You already knew, didn’t you?”

“That something was going to happen? Oh, yes, I did. The Mark…” Automatically, his right hand came up to cover his left forearm.

“Does it…” She stopped, evidently pondering whether it was safe for her to ask this question. “Does it hurt when he calls you?”

He swivelled around, rather taken aback by her question. “Hurt? No, why should it hurt?”

“Well…” She was twisting a strand of hair around her forefinger. “It seems, uh, appropriate.”

Shaking his head in bewilderment, he stood up to get himself a drink. He had intended to renounce alcohol until they returned from Azkaban, but found that he simply needed the sensation of the liquid warming his throat. With his back to her, he said, “You have listened to too many fairy tales, Nimue. Why would Voldemort want to make being summoned an unpleasant experience?”

He had not yet finished his question, when she already started speaking. “Because he’s a monster, that’s why. Because he wants to make people suffer—why shouldn’t he want to do that to his followers?”

“I didn’t say that he doesn’t enjoy seeing others suffer,” he replied calmly, returning to his chair. “But—” he took a sip and closed his eyes to relish the feeling “—even a deranged megalomaniac like Voldemort knows all too well that what really lures people is pleasure, not pain. Or how else do you think he would have gathered followers in the first place?”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” she admitted. “Come to think of it, you are, of course, right.”

He uttered a dry “Thank you.”

“I suppose,” she continued, “that I thought it might hurt, because it looks so much like a brand. Like the ones farmers burn into their cattle’s skin to claim ownership. It’s a bit uncanny, to think that Voldemort does the same with his followers.”

“Definitely,” he agreed, grimly. “But that’s exactly what it is. A brand, only more elaborate.”

“And it works both ways,” she said, in barely more than a whisper. “That’s horrible.”

“Both ways? I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“No? I thought that was quite obvious. Don’t you remember Fudge’s reaction? People recognize you immediately as what you are. Or at least, they think they do, and that it gives them the right to shun you.”

“All the better for them, if you ask me.”

“No!” She was leaning forward now, elbows resting on her knees, her face pinched with indignation. “People can’t just lock you away in a category, because you’re wearing a tattoo, however evil. It’s wrong! And unjust!”

“Crusading again?” he mocked.

“Don’t make fun of me! Especially as I’m saying this for your sake! Lucius’s too,” she added, a little reluctantly.

“Nimue…” He looked down on his fingers holding the glass. “I won’t pretend to be bothered by your sudden change of mind, as far as Lucius and I are concerned. But don’t go too far.”

“Too far? What exactly do you mean by ‘too far’?” The moon was now higher up in the sky; when she had come to him and sat down near the window, the broad path of light had encompassed her entire form. Now, only her face and hands were turned into sculptures of moonstone by the remaining slant of light. Small hands, their fingers interlaced, gripping tightly at each other for control. “I have…” Her voice quivered, and he could see tears glinting in her eyes. “I have plunged… or been plunged, rather, headlong into this… this situation. I’ve accepted that I won’t see my—” she took a deep, calming breath “—my adoptive parents for a very long time. I’ve accepted that this…” She made a helpless, sweeping gesture with her right hand, out of the reach of the moonlight, and then back again to its previous position. “This is my family now,” she continued. “This is all I’ve got. Otherwise I’d be completely alone. So what do you expect? I need to feel safe somewhere, and I can’t do so unless I can trust you. You, and the Malfoys.”

“You can certainly trust us, Nimue. We wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble unless we meant to protect you.” At that, she relaxed slightly and leaned back. “What I wanted you to understand is that none of us is either completely black or completely white. I know—” he raised his hand to silence her “Let me finish this. I know that now you’d prefer us to be completely white, and, as I said, I very much appreciate that attempt. But don’t let yourself be fooled. None of us is a repentant sinner, much as you’d probably like that concept. But it’s simplistic, Nimue, and the way your mind works is anything but. You can trust us, and we will protect you. With our lives, if need be. However, that doesn’t make us Sir Percivals.”

“But…” Now, she was sounding definitely stubborn. “But I need to believe in something. I need certainties. I can’t… I can’t just float between… everything,” she concluded, her voice thick again.

“I know. You need to belong somewhere, we already talked about that. On the other hand, we don’t have to be saints for you to accept us. Trust or affection, based on a misconception, won’t get you very far. We—with the exception of Yelena and Narcissa, of course—have all killed and tortured. I have little doubt that we will do it again. You have to see that, and understand it. Only if you are able to say, honestly say, ‘Lucius is a murderer and Professor Snape once upon a time used to enjoy killing, but I trust them all the same’, only then will you feel safe with us. Otherwise, there is always going to be some residue of fear. Learn whom to fear, Nimue, and why.”

“You sound like Dumbledore,” she said. There was more amusement than resentment in her voice, though.

“Maybe. Not that I take this as a compliment.” He looked at his watch. “Time for me to leave. Good night, Nimue.” He rose, and she followed suit. “And I don’t want to find you sleeping on my doorstep when I return, understood?”

~~~~*~~~~

Like four children playing survivors in the wild, Severus thought. If anybody could see them, they would surely laugh their heads off. Four grown-up wizards, sitting on a large wooden raft of approximately ten feet by ten, in the middle of a meadow. At five minutes to midnight.

It was not funny, though. In fact, it was highly dangerous.

With the wards protecting both the island and fortress of Azkaban from unauthorized Apparition—although that was highly unlikely, as the place was unplottable—they had to get as near as they could. This was, of course, more easily said than done, since the next piece of terra firma was many miles away. They had briefly considered Apparating and simultaneously casting levitating spells on each other, but decided it was too dangerous, especially as none of the Phoenixes put it past Black to pull another of his famous pranks. Unlike most others, this one might be lethal, and thus it was preferable not to increase the number of risks they were already taking.

The raft was made of balsa, courtesy of Owen, who had been clever enough to order a large quantity immediately after it had become clear that Voldemort’s foremost target was Azkaban. Lucius had put a spill-proof charm on the Pensieve which he was holding firmly upon his crossed legs. Even in the moonlight, Severus was able to discern that his knuckles were paler than the rest of his hands. Then again, they were all nervous.

“You’ll have to hold on to the wood with one hand,” he remarked curtly.

“And grow a third arm for holding my wand?”

“You don’t need to hold your wand,” Owen said. “Three of us are enough to move this bloody thing, and keep it from capsizing.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the raft,” Lucius replied, shooting a sinister look in Black’s direction.

Severus shook his head ever so slightly, to prevent him from saying more. Catching Lucius’s eye, he surreptitiously moved his right hand, so that the tip of his wand was now pointing at Black. A short nod told him that Lucius had understood. “All right then,” he said, “Shall we go?”

“On the count of three,” said Black. “One—two—three—”

There was no sound when they materialized, and there seemed to be no light either. For one desperate moment, Severus thought something had gone wrong. Then, however, he realized that they had, indeed, arrived at their intended destination.

The water was completely calm, without so much as a ripple or a small wave. Like an enormous expanse of glass, solid but so thin that they might break through any moment and fall into the black depths underneath. Here, hundreds of miles north of Scotland, the sky was overcast, which partly accounted for the pitch-black darkness enveloping them. But they had also aimed very well; the Apparition had brought them very close to the steep rock, which was slightly overhanging at this point, so that what little light there might be was swallowed by the shadow of the huge mass looming over them.

For a while, their ragged breathing was the only sound to be heard.

“Do you think it’s too risky to try Lumos?” Black finally asked. His voice was a little hoarse.

Lucius cleared his throat. “I don’t think we need that right now. After all, we have to test those wards first.” He pried his right hand from the Pensieve and drew his wand. “Who wants to have a go?”

Instead of an answer, Owen murmured, “Oh… bloody, bloody hell!”

Severus, whose eyes had in the meantime adjusted to the darkness, could make out that Owen was gazing upwards and followed his line of view. There was nothing but blackness there. “What?” he whispered, although it was not necessary for him to keep his voice down. The Dementors had their own ways of sensing prey; they did not need to rely on any visual or acoustic signals.

Owen swallowed audibly. “You can’t see it from where you’re sitting,” he replied, also in barely more than a murmur. “But it’s… Merlin, it’s bloody frightening.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious,” Black hissed. “And I hoped never to come back here again…”

“I’m just wondering how you made it out in the first place,” Owen said. “Even as a dog, going down that slope—”

“Well, I did it, and I don’t want to be reminded of it,” Black interrupted him. “So kindly shut up. Who’s first for the wards?”

He and Owen were faint outlines against the backdrop of night; Lucius, who was sitting on the other side of the raft together with Severus, was distinguishable as a separate entity merely by the sound of his breathing. “I’ll give it a try,” Severus said. “Owen, can you see enough of me to get me out of the water, in case I get thrown off?”

“Not really. But I’ll try Lumos.”

“Not Lumos,” Lucius’s voice came out of the darkness, “If you use that, all you get is a reflection on the surface. That’s even worse than no light. No, Sev has to fire up red sparks.”

“I can’t fire up red sparks through the water. At least, I’m not sure whether it works.”

Before they could continue their discussion, Black chimed in, “Are you really that stupid, or are you merely pretending?”

The three turned to the source of the voice. “I beg your pardon?” Lucius said icily.

A faint chuckle came from Black’s direction. “Ever heard of life belts?” As no one answered his—probably rhetoric—question, he continued, “Muggles have them. They’re inflatable rings you put around your waist, so you don’t go under. If you say pretty please, I might conjure some.”

“Stop the nonsense, Black, and just do it!” Severus snarled, vexed because he had not thought of that simple solution. A few seconds later, he felt the grip of something light around his midsection. “All right,” he said, standing up gingerly so as to keep his balance. “Now let’s see.” He pointed his wand to where the surrounding blackness seemed at its densest. By now, he had completely lost orientation, and had he not been standing on his feet, he could not even have told the difference between up and down. “I’d suggest that you keep your heads down, so I won’t hit you instead of the shield. Ready?” The three muttered their assent. Although he was feeling blind and utterly helpless, he raised his wand arm. “Scutum Demonstratio!”

Amazed, the four wizards watched as a complicated series of magical signatures developed before their eyes. The colours were mostly red and blue, indicating that the magic used to erect the shield was of the purest and whitest kind. In the uncertain shimmer, Severus saw the others’ faces, pinched with concentration, the colour of their skin taking on hues of pink and light blue. Their eyes were riveted on the whirling symbols, in order to catch as many of the spells as possible. Then there was blackness once again; it seemed heavier than before.

“Well,” Lucius said slowly, “That's one hell of a lot of spells. Nothing complicated, though. And no passwords, or did any of you see something I missed?”

“No,” came Black’s reply. “We just have to undo them in the right order, that’s important, I suppose.”

Although nobody could see it, Severus nodded. “I suggest that we share tasks, then. I’ll cast the revelation spell—has anybody counted how many there were?”

“Er… no,” Owen said. “I was too busy reading.”

Feeling much safer now that it was clear he would not be propelled off the raft and into the silently lurking abyss, Severus cast the Revelation Spell again. Now they were all counting, slowly, like small children anxiously following their teacher’s lead, careful not to miss a beat. When the succession of magical symbols had come to an end, there were four heavy sighs.

“Twenty-one. Not very creative,” Owen observed. “Three times seven—that’s really, really cliché. And such commonplace spells, too. Every suburban mudblood housewitch could counter those.”

“Seems that they relied more on the location being unplottable,” Black muttered. “All right then, how do we proceed?”

After a few seconds’ reflection, Severus said, “I propose that Owen and take it in turns to cast the Scutum Demonstratio and undo the spells, one by one. Black counts, just so we are on the safe side. We don’t want to jump one of those, for the result might be disastrous. You can count using your fingers, Black, can’t you? Or is that too—” An ominous growl out of the dark interrupted him. Given the precariousness of their situation, where everybody had to depend on everybody else, Severus thought it wiser not to continue. “Let’s get started,” he said briskly.

When Owen rose from his seated position, the raft started swaying dangerously, since he was about thirty pounds heavier than Severus and on the same side as he to boot. Feeling that they were about to lose their balance, both cowered down again, and Severus crawled nearer to where Lucius was crouching. At the second try, they succeeded.

The following hour was one of the most exhausting of Severus’s life, and he had little doubt that Owen was feeling the same. The combined concentration and exertion made sweat stream down his face, chest and back; so far up in the North, the night air was chilly, and soon his neck and shoulders began to feel stiff under the cold compress his shirt had turned into. After the last spell had been undone, he let his arms fall to his sides with a sigh of relief, wincing at the pain in his right arm.

He waited until his heartbeat had calmed down to a nearly normal rhythm, and then said, “Lucius, Black, do you think you might take down the Anti-Apparition wards? I have to rest for a while.”

“Me too,” Owen agreed, and both sat down gingerly, although Severus would have preferred to let himself slump down heavily, regardless of the rough landing he would have made on the wood; only the thought of the icy bath he would probably have to take if he did prevented him from giving in to the urge.

He felt Lucius’s fingers search for him in the darkness, grabbed them, and the Pensieve was cautiously pressed into his hands. After the firework of blue and red, his eyes had readjusted to the lack of light, and he could now make out Black’s silhouette, already on his feet on the other side of their small wooden island. Too tired to keep watching, Severus lowered his head and closed his eyes for a few moments, careful not to let droplets of sweat fall into the Pensieve.

As they all had expected, this second shield was much stronger—understandably so, for its main purpose was to keep the inmates of Azkaban from escaping by Apparition. No wand was needed for that means of transportation, and during the first few days of their sojourn in the prison, many of the convicts were still in possession of their sanity and magical abilities. Only later, when both had been destroyed by constant exposal to Dementors and telluric energy, were they not likely to get out anymore.

Fortunately, the barrier had not been renewed or brought up to date since the time when the necessity of establishing it had arisen. Thus, it was powerful but relatively simple. Had Fudge heeded Dumbledore’s advice of three weeks ago, it would have taken the two wizards far longer to pull it down. As things were, Lucius and Black had finished their task after what seemed half an hour, maybe a little more. They were now free to explore the Isle of Azkaban.

The problem was that Owen had been told its exact location, but nothing else. If blueprints of the fortress existed at all, they were well-hidden, or maybe simply buried under layers of dust and oblivion in the Ministry’s archives. Whatever the reason of their de-facto-inexistence, none of the four wizards had the faintest idea what to expect. Not even Black; for whoever was sentenced to spend some years or the rest of their lives in this heap of stone was stunned, bound and gagged for the whole duration of the journey. No humans accompanied the prisoners; they were taken to their destination by Dementors. Once inside their cells, they remained there. Not even Severus could blame Black for not being able to help. Nonetheless, they had to get close to, if not into, the prison, and as fast as possible. The removal of the wards was not likely to remain unnoticed forever.

Finally, they decided to move the raft backwards by about one hundred yards, although such estimates were difficult to make in the impenetrable blackness surrounding them, and try to make out as many details as possible. Their first attempt sent them crashing into the cliff—their vessel had turned slightly, so that the wall of rock was not behind Lucius and Severus’s backs anymore. Fortunately, they had glided over the water at very low speed, and thus nobody went overboard. They could only hope that none of the Pensieve’s contents had been spilled. They tried again, floating backwards at snail-pace, counting the seconds, calculating that it took them about four seconds to cover one yard; when they had arrived at four hundred, Severus ended the spell.

They had all been peering so intently into the darkness, trying against all reason to see obstacles before running into them, that none of them had noticed that a minuscule amount of light had sneaked its way into the night. Their surroundings had turned a lighter shade of black, if such an oxymoron was possible, and the darkness seemed to have become less tangible, less glued to their skin and eyes. It was possible to breathe a bit more freely, without fearing poisoning by that glutinous, tar-like mass.

The sight that greeted their eyes, when they had finally realized the subtle change of scenery, was enough to make them gasp.

Azkaban was enormous.

The island itself, from the small part they could see, had to be at least one mile, if note one and a half, in diameter, and at least a thousand feet in height. It was impossible to distinguish, with what little light there was, where exactly the island proper ended and the prison walls began. But they all agreed that the fortress had to be nearly as tall as the rock it was resting on. There were no towers, turrets or battlements; nothing to alleviate the atmosphere of stern, sinister gloom emanating from the strictly quadrangular mass. It looked as elemental as the island, one solid unbreakable piece of terrifying strength. Or rather, Severus thought, shivering in the malicious current of energy which now flowed freely and unimpeded by the wards, it looked as if both island and fortress had been hewn by a giant, so smooth and geometrical was their form.

The others, whom he was now able to discern a little more clearly, were not much better off. Especially Black seemed to be trembling like a leaf.

“I… I can’t go up there,” he said tonelessly, without looking at the three. “Call me a coward and taunt me till the end of my life, but I can’t go up there. It’s too…” He did not finish his sentence. The pair of dark smudges in the pale oval that was his face vanished. He had closed his eyes.

“Fine,” Lucius clipped. “Truly excellent. Much as I understand your feelings, Black, how are we supposed to attract those creatures?”

Black gave a ragged sigh. “I don’t know, Malfoy. I truly don’t know. I just—”

“It seems,” Owen interrupted him, his voice hoarse and slightly high-pitched with shock, “that we don’t need to worry about how to attract them. I think…” His right hand, clutched tightly around his wand, pointed towards the island. “Can’t you feel the chill? They’re coming for us.”

Now all four were on their feet, trying to penetrate the darkness with their eyes. Owen had been right—the temperature was dropping, slowly but relentlessly.

“Shit,” Lucius groaned, “There seem to be many of them. Against four of us, right here in the water…”

Severus felt his throat constrict with fear. “Black, can you cast a Patronus?”

“Use that brain, Snape. Of course I can’t. Where would I get the happy—”

“Shut up! Here, take the Pensieve!” Black pocketed his wand and took the basin. “Right—we let them come near enough for Black to splash them with the contents. If it doesn’t work, we have to cast lots of Patroni, and in very quick succession.”

Lucius nodded, grim determination almost palpable around him. “Very good. And cast Lumos, we have to see those creatures!”

The Lumos spell showed them a veritable battalion of Dementors floating towards them—an almost homogenous grey mass exuding decay and reeking of sleepless, sweaty nights and shrieking fear. They were gliding across the water without touching its surface, but so close to it that they seemed to be walking. And they were silent, as quiet as death, noiseless lava slowly creeping across the glassy, unnaturally calm expanse of sea. No sound, just a chill so cold that it made the soul freeze. Nearer, they came, and nearer.

Out of the corner of his eye, Severus saw the Pensieve tremble in Black’s hands. “Black, are you sure you can handle this?” The Animagus merely nodded. Far from being convinced, Severus said, “Try not to use it too early, will you?” Another nod, and Severus turned his attention back to the grey bulk. They were now maybe thirty yards away. He sincerely hoped that Black’s Quidditch experience would make up for his panic. Correct aim was a matter of life or death now.

The seconds stretched painfully, becoming thinner and thinner until they were so transparent that the eye of eternity became visible through them. Heartbeat was a mere flutter, wings against bars, mind numb with fear and single-minded concentration. Twenty yards. Eighteen. Thirteen. Ten. Muscles were as tightly-wound as the knots in the bark of trees. Nine. The knots tightened; impossible, but they did, one more turn of the screw of fear. Eight.

With an inhuman howl, Black hurled the Pensieve straight into the phalanx of Dementors.

~~~~*~~~~

There were voices, male and female. And there was warmth. Outside, not inside his body. Severus shivered. The voices were strange, too, for not only had they a muffled quality, as if they were coming to him through a multi-layered blanket, their distance seemed to vary by the second. Sometimes it seemed that somebody was putting their mouth right on top of his ear, skin separated from skin only by the blanket, and the next instant, they were so far away that they diminished to mere whispers. Maybe he was dreaming. Then he realized that his eyes were open. Were they covered? Perhaps they had pulled the blanket up over his head—but who were ‘they’?

He tried to concentrate. Where the hell was he? He had been sitting in his room together with Nimue, telling her about Azkaban… Azkaban? His back ached with a sudden burst of adrenaline. He had been in Azkaban, he and Lucius, Owen and Black. Slowly, the memory forced its way through the fog enveloping his brain. The clearer his mind became, the worse his body felt. The looming silhouette of the fortress came back to him, the moments of wordless anxiety, when the Dementors had approached them. Black had thrown the pensieve… Another jolt of apprehension raced through him. It had worked! Nimue had hit upon the right idea…

That encounter creates a considerable amount of energy. Never mind, though, her voice skipped lightly through his consciousness. Never mind, indeed. The discharge of energy had been gigantic. He bad been blown off his feet and into the water—he remembered that clearly now, and he also remembered desperately clutching his wand while his head was submerged by the icy floods.

Now there was warmth around him, that much was sure. So he had probably been rescued, although that seemed scarcely credible. There was nothing near Azkaban, absolutely nothing. But he was here, wherever that was, and definitely not drowning. He might just as well remove that damnable blanket from his eyes and have a look.

It was the strangest feeling. His right hand was there; he could feel it. He could distinctly feel the soreness of its muscles that had held on to his wand, even under the water, even when he had felt the pressure close in on his lungs and heart and head. So why was he unable to lift it? Impatient anger began to bubble up within him but he tried to control himself. Perhaps he was just weak and ought to start with small steps. Crooking his forefinger, perhaps. He made the effort—were he his normal self, he thought, it would be sufficient to lift Hagrid—and was flooded with relief. The tip of his finger was brushing over crisp-soft material. Just weakness, then. With the relief came a tiredness so leaden that it was impossible for him to resist. He gave up and let himself be sucked into deep sleep.

He knew he was dreaming, and tried to wake up, because he was sure the dream was going to be unpleasant. He was on that raft again, together with Nimue. Only here, in this landscape fabricated by his subconscious from elements gathered Merlin knew where, he could see where the sky ended and the sea began. Or the other way round. For a while, he pondered which way of expressing it would be more exact. The sky was as uniform as the sea, a bleak pewter colour. The endless expanse of water around their small wooden platform was tinged a deep crimson. He knew it was blood, maybe because of the colour, maybe because it was steaming slightly; it had a coppery, warm smell. He was sitting with his legs crossed, arms resting limply at his sides. Nimue was mirroring his position. On his knees, which were turned inside up, perched a raven and a dove. “That’s Elias,” she said, and he looked up. Her posture expressed sadness, or distress, or maybe shame, for her head was bowed, so deep that her chin was touching her breastbone. “Yes,” he said. “I know. And the dove? What’s her name?” “Hermione,” she said and raised her head, to look at him. But she could not.

She had no eyes. Under her brows were two red patches, the colour of the water they were floating on, bloated and festering, oozing pus like viscous tears. He was terrified, not only because of her aspect, but because he knew he had done this to her. “Are they coming?” she asked calmly. He looked around the horizon. “No. There is nobody. Shall I send out the raven?” She nodded, and he touched Elias with his wand. He had not noticed that the bird was wearing a collar, woven of finest gold thread, studded with emeralds. The raven nodded once and took off. A long time passed in silence.

Then, suddenly, he was alerted by a noise, as of enormous wings beating the air. He turned round. From behind the horizon, a huge, dark form slowly emerged, grew larger and larger until it filled half the sky. A bird-shaped cloud, its wings spanning thousands of miles. With every beat of its wings, waves high as mountains rose from the sea, crests foaming and boiling, and splashed back down. The raft was already performing a mad dance atop the smaller waves they had spawned.

She smiled, and lifted both arms in front of her, palms facing skyward. “And Darkness claims its toll again,” she said.