Chapter Text
/5 August 1996\
Harry couldn’t believe it. He sat in stunned silence while he listened to the Minister explain the fact that everyone who could have had any chance of proving his innocence were unable to testify on his behalf. Due to the binding nature of a Life Debt, no one who owed him one or any of their family were able to speak for him as it would be assumed that they would do so regardless of any evidence. Evidently, even Veritaserum could be adversely affected by the magic of a life debt. That meant the Weasley family and Hermione. Well, Snape, too, though it wasn’t like he would have anyway. Then there was Neville and Luna and their families. Harry wasn’t exactly sure when he’d saved their lives, but he assumed it was at some point during that disaster in the Department of Mysteries. They’d both been tested and there was no doubt that they were magically indebted to him even if the spell to detect it couldn’t explain where it came from.
Remus couldn’t testify because he was technically a dark creature. Mad-Eye had testified on Harry’s behalf, which was somewhat surprising, but as he could provide little more than a character reference since he wasn’t really there – and since he was largely considered a paranoid crazy person – that hadn’t been much help beyond a bit of a morale boost for Harry.
Harry could not be put under Veritaserum since there could, evidently, be damage done to his magical core as he was underage and his core still not stable. He’d asked to have his memories reviewed, only to be rejected because memories could be faked. He’d disputed that by telling them firmly that, while it was possible, he certainly couldn’t manage that kind of mental focus. It took a master Occlumens to make a fake memory detailed enough to fool even a child. Of course, they hadn’t listened. It was incredibly clear that Fudge and many others wanted him locked up.
When the guilty verdict was read and Harry was sentenced to life in Azkaban for murder and the use of an Unforgiveable, Harry started to laugh. He laughed harder than he’d ever laughed in his life, and he laughed all the way out of the courtroom despite his dementor guards.
Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the so-called Savior of the Wizarding World, was being condemned to Azkaban based almost solely on the fact that he’d done too many good deeds in his life. He’d managed to save so many people that he’d destroyed any chance at a defense. It was bloody hilarious, really. He was being condemned because he was a good person with a saving-people-thing.
The guards who tossed him into the cell where he would spend the rest of his life had looked distinctly unnerved by the fact that he was still laughing.
One Year Later
\2 August 1997/
Harry’s amusement with the whole situation had been bled dry within his first week in the hell commonly known as Azkaban. Rage had taken its place. Rage for Fudge and the rest of those idiots that had let him be locked away. Even more though, was his rage for Albus Dumbledore. The man had not testified against him, since he’d not been able to give any evidence, but he’d sat there through the whole trial giving Harry such looks of disappointment. Harry had watched as almost everyone else in the room had kept sneaking glances at the old man, and he could see the affect it had had on them. They could see that Dumbledore thought Harry was guilty, and that was enough evidence for them.
Since he’d been locked up, Harry had spent a lot of time thinking about Dumbledore – rose-colored glasses permanently removed and crushed underfoot. The more he thought about it, the more obvious it became. So obvious, in fact, that he was incredibly disappointed in himself at being taken in by that puppet master for so long.
The air chilled, and Harry braced himself for the dementors that he knew were coming around again. He bowed his head as the nightmares were brought to the surface, and took refuge deeper in his mind, as he’d been training himself to do since the second week. It was at that point that he’d realized he would be insane in a matter of months if he couldn’t find some way to deal with the dementors. It had been a rocky start, but he’d been diligent – having absolutely nothing else to do with his time, and ample opportunity for practice did help. It was far from pleasant, but he’d eventually discovered how to put himself into a kind of trance, hiding his conscious mind within his unconscious mind so that the dementors could do their worst and not affect him at all.
It wasn’t all that simple, of course. He was still perfecting the technique, and had only gotten good enough to fully escape them in the last couple of weeks. Still, it had given him a purpose in here, and that alone had been a tremendous help. The fact that he was steadily, if slowly, making progress had been a boon as well.
This time, he found himself deeper than he’d ever been before, sequestered within very old and forgotten memories. Memories of a beautiful, green-eyed witch and a handsome hazel-eyed wizard.
Some hours later, Harry emerged from his mind with tears falling freely down his cheeks, having met his parents for the first time.
Two Months Later
|1 year, 2 months in Azkaban|
\12 October 1997/
It was with reluctance that Harry left the deepest recesses of his mind once more. He spent a lot of time there, but he had to come up to eat, sleep, and relieve himself lest his body waste away while he lived in his forgotten memories. He often found it amusing that the dementors – which were so renowned for taking away all happiness – had led him to find the happiest memories of his life.
He’d been through every waking moment of the first fifteen months of his life many times over now, as it was evidently much quicker to relive memories than it was to go through them in the first place. He didn’t even have to go there to remember now, since seeing them had brought them into his conscious recollection, but when he viewed them in his subconscious, it was like living them all over again – apart from having a more mature mind. He couldn’t change anything, but he could see, hear, taste, touch, and smell exactly like he was really there. The unconditional love that he saw every time his parents looked at him filled him with such happiness that he was sure he could create a patronus powerful enough to obliterate every dementor in Azkaban were he able to access his magic in this place.
Of course, his parents had not worried about what they said in front of their young son, assuming correctly that he could not understand the context of their discussions. Reviewing the memories now, however, Harry understood everything. Some of it was distinctly… disturbing. His mum had cried for almost two weeks straight when she’d learned one little detail concerning her grandfather. Harry had been shocked to learn that his mother was adopted – a fact she’d learned only after reading a letter enclosed in her parents’ wills when they’d been killed in a car accident in March of 1981. That discovery had led her to searching out her birth parents. Evidently, she’d been orphaned as an infant – hence the adoption and her not knowing about it. Her grandfather was still alive, but she’d had no interest in visiting him at Nurmengard, where he’d been since long before she was born.
He ate the provided meal quickly as he had learned to do, made use of the bucket stuck in the corner that automatically vanished his waste, and then did some stretches and a brief workout as he did after each meal. Considering that he was sentenced to spend the rest of his life in this hell, it shouldn’t matter if his muscles atrophied, but Harry still held out hope of leaving one day. After all, if Dumbledore was right about the prophecy, he’d have to kill Voldemort at some point – or get killed by him. So there was a chance. Of course, there was also a chance that Voldie would show up at Azkaban to break out his minions and just kill Harry while he was there and next to helpless without a wand. If that day did come, Harry hoped that he’d at least be strong enough to attempt to flee or maybe find a wand and put up some kind of fight. If he was going to die, he could accept that, but he sure as shit wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
And if he did manage to kill that psycho and the ministry still expected him to live the rest of his life in prison… well, Harry promised himself that he’d find a way to escape and then… Then he’d pull their world down around their ears, even if that did make him the next Dark Lord.
He shook himself from his grim thoughts when he felt the dementors coming around again. The guard dogs were punctual. If Harry had a watch, he imagined he could set it by their rounds. Not that he had a watch. Or any notion of the date. Since his cell didn’t have a window, and the temperature only changed based on the dementors’ rounds, he didn’t even know if it was summer or winter. Time passed rather strangely in Azkaban, and Harry couldn’t even guess at how long he’d been there except that it was something between half a year and three – probably. It felt like a decade, but he knew it was most likely less than that.
He fell back into the depths of his mind, but before he could lose himself in his memories, he felt something… strange. It took him a surprisingly long time to identify it, and when he did, he felt a thrill of fear course through him. His connection to Voldemort. He’d all but forgotten it, but it was still there.
There was a small, tight bundle of thoughts and emotions in the darkest corner of his subconscious mind, hidden in such shadows of his own darker memories that he’d never paid it any mind before. He only noticed it now because it was pulsing with anger and… frustration. Voldemort was upset about something.
Harry had some considerable reservations about touching that little node of darkness, but curiosity coupled with extreme boredom won out in the end. He reached out to it tentatively, and the moment that his conscious mind touched it, he felt himself yanked right into it. There was a vague sensation of traveling down a tunnel, or falling into a hole… Actually, it was a bit like sliding down that pipe toward the Chamber of Secrets. It was dark and filled with the fear of not knowing if you were about to drop off into the Abyss.
And then it was over. His senses flip-flopped before settling again, and he found himself staring at a room full of robed but unmasked Death Eaters – which made him instinctively unnerved, but Voldemort’s consciousness was too closely linked to his to reach real panic. Plus, he did know that he wasn’t really there. He wasn’t sure if Voldie could sense him, but he knew that no one else was aware of him.
“Crucio!” he snarled in a high, cold voice, icy satisfaction suffusing him as he watched Bellatrix writhe beneath his wand.
Harry couldn’t help but feel a little satisfied, too, considering the identity of the one being tortured. Hurts, doesn’t it, bitch! He thought fiercely.
Voldemort did not seem aware of the fact that he was playing host to his worst enemy as he went on about the business of torturing several more Death Eaters. Finally, he released Nott Sr. from the latest curse and looked over the frightened faces of those still standing.
“Severus,” he purred in a way that was distinctly unnerving.
Snape stepped forward with a respectful but blank mask over his features, somehow managing to look unafraid despite the fact that the last five Death Eaters called forward had been tortured rather severely. “My Lord,” he intoned, lowering himself to one knee and bowing his head.
Harry could feel Voldemort’s satisfaction with this minion as he’d not felt with any of the previous. Evidently, Snape was one of a very few highly favored by the Dark Lord. “Rise.”
Snape stood fluidly, still exposing no emotion.
“Tell me of the Order, Severus,” Harry commanded – no Voldemort commanded. It was disturbingly difficult to keep that distinction in mind.
“Dumbledore continues to hint that he has some new weapon to turn the tide of the war, but I suspect he is lying to keep up morale. I do believe he is searching for something, but he is keeping it very secret. I don’t think anyone except him knows what it is that he is hoping to find.”
Tom was wary of this news, but he was inclined to believe Severus’ deductions. If Dumbledore did have a weapon, it was probably something ridiculous and quaint – like another child he intended to offer up for slaughter.
“There is one more thing…” Severus said with extreme reluctance, and Tom felt dread pool in his stomach. If Severus was that nervous about giving this detail, it meant that it was something he wasn’t going to like. He narrowed his eyes and his spy rushed on despite his discomfort. “He has not explained its significance, my Lord, but he seemed very pleased at discovering and destroying two things that he claims had been yours.”
The pool of dread froze solid. “What items, Severus?” he asked very softly.
“A ring, my Lord. A gold band with a black stone. And a diadem-“
“Crucio!”
How? How had that old man found them? How had he known what they were? With an effort, he reeled in his sudden burst of panic and lifted the curse from his favorite Death Eater, somewhat sorry that he’d not held his temper. Severus was too valuable to risk on his fits of temper.
“Out,” he growled quietly. “Everyone! Out! Now!”
The room cleared with typical rapidity, and Tom lowered himself wearily into a chair, absently flicking his wrist to lock and ward the door. It really wouldn’t do for some idiot to wander in when he was this upset. He’d most likely kill them before he even noted their identity, and he did have a few Death Eaters he would hate to lose.
Slipping away his wand, he ran his hands tiredly over his face. That was three horcruxes gone. The diary, thanks to Lucius and that Potter brat.
Harry felt slightly indignant at that, despite his interest in what these horcruxes were.
Now, Dumbledore had destroyed two more. Perhaps that explained the… unusual things he’d been feeling these past two weeks. No part of his soul could be destroyed while any other part remained in the mortal world, so when the horcruxes were destroyed, the soul fragments would have returned to him.
The weaknesses he’d purged from himself were coming back.
He thought about that for a long time, frowning deeply all the while. The problem was that he didn’t feel weaker. He felt… stronger now. He had been since what he could only assume was the point at which the second horcrux was lost two weeks ago.
Tom did not like to admit that he’d been wrong – particularly about something this important – but it was difficult to doubt. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became. Splitting his soul had weakened him, even while it had hardened his resolve and removed his doubts, it had weakened his body and magic. Why had that never been mentioned in any of the books he’d found?
He smirked slightly when he thought about that fact that Dumbledore was actually making him stronger by destroying the horcruxes. Perhaps… It went against his instincts, but perhaps he should allow the old man to destroy the rest of them. He’d still have Nagini, after all. There was no way that he was going to kill her – unless it became absolutely necessary, anyway. She was the only thing in this whole wretched world that Lord Voldemort cared about. Though he would promptly murder anyone who ever suggested that he was afflicted by something as mundane as affection. It wouldn’t be possible for him to destroy his own horcruxes, or call his soul back to him, but he could allow someone else to do it for him.
He’d need to give it some more thought, but for now, he’d leave the locket and cup where they were. Searching for them would keep Dumbledore distracted and let him think he was actually winning. If he ever did manage to destroy them, it would not be a great loss. In the meantime, Tom needed to do some research into alternate forms of immortality. Having only a snake – even one as magnificent as Nagini – standing between him and death did not sit at all well with the Dark Lord. Maybe it was time to find Flamel’s notes. Surely the man had recorded the method for creating the Philosopher’s Stone.
Harry blinked as he withdrew from Voldemort’s mind and returned to his own within his cell. That had been… incredibly informative – if a bit disturbing. So he knew what it was that had made Tom Riddle immortal – and evidently weaker. And Dumbledore didn’t even know that he was doing the Dark Lord a favor by destroying things that Voldemort probably would have destroyed himself had he been able to do so.
Harry cursed under his breath, beyond frustrated. He was trapped in Azkaban, unable to do anything, or even contact anyone who was in a place to do something. And he knew what the other three horcruxes were, and even where they were, since he’d seen it in Tom’s mind when the man had been thinking about them. Not that he really would have known what to do with that information if he did have it. Apparently, Voldie couldn’t die while those horcruxes existed. But he would be even stronger than he was when they were destroyed. It seemed like a really shitty conundrum to Harry. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.
Maybe Dumbledore did have it right. Even if it was making the man stronger, they had to go. Still, it would have been awfully damn nice to warn someone that Voldemort was going to go after Nicolas Flamel’s research notes. If Voldemort did manage to make himself a Philosopher’s Stone… that would be Bad. And there was nothing that Harry could do about it.
After some thought, Harry sent his mind back to Voldemort. Going on the assumption that he was eventually going to end up facing the man either in or out of Azkaban, Harry decided that he was going to arm himself with all the knowledge he could get, even if he couldn’t use it yet.