"What a face you have," said my boss. You can't choose your boss, and there's no point in arguing with him.
"Just a handsome guy, compared to the locals." I nodded towards the window, where the shadow of a Dementor was passing by.
"Ah-ha, right.
I've only been working here for a few months. They could have not hired me, with only Hogwarts for an education. Although, considering how many times they tried to kill this unfortunate body with its previous owner, in practice I knew more than the Aurors graduating from the Academy.
"Thomason can't make it today, you'll have to cover his floors," he says, looking at me intently. My boss is a real bastard and a risk-taker, but in this place you can't do anything else — you'll get killed. And who exactly kills you is determined by your own stupidity. Break a security guard's oath and you'll be killed for it. If you're too naive and fall for the prisoners' tricks, you'll end up right there by the cell. And if you forget to put on one of the artefacts, your "colleagues" guarding the high-security facility will drink your soul.
"Yes, sir," I stand at attention and stare towards the window.
"Then what are you still doing here?" He's switched to a quiet tone, which means he's about to yell. The main thing is that it's not at me.
"Sorry, sir, I'm leaving," I say, closing the door behind me.
I leave the small building attached to the prison. This is where administrative matters were dealt with, inspections took place, and paperwork was done. Without looking back, I walk towards the prison. There's nothing to look at, it's not my first time here. And only perverts would stare at Dementors all the time. Despite the protective artefacts, it's always been hard to be here. There's an oppressive feeling that everything good is far away, and everything bad is right there, waiting to be touched, along with the most painful memories. Frowning in dissatisfaction, I hold out my wand for identification, prick my finger, and squeeze my blood onto a special disc to check for Polyjuice potions and other identity-altering potions.
"Success, you may go.
Today, I had to guard the first and second levels for twelve hours. During that time, I have to make two rounds. It is Thomason who guards the father of this body, his uncle and his wife. The supervisor I am replacing has been working for ten years, so I have to guard the third and fourth levels for him. And considering that he works on a daily basis, I have an extra twelve hours to spend here.
Before going out onto the floors, I go into a small room set aside for security. Here there are spare artefacts to scare off Dementors (although you can only take them after first taking a special oath), a couple of wardrobes with clothes and spare shoes. Mr. Weasley was sitting there too. No one knew his name, and he only spoke to the boss. Rumour had it that this old guard (he had been working there for fifty years) was half-Muggle and half-dark magical creature. The fifth and sixth levels were the most terrifying places, and that was where he worked. Alone. No one would go down there for any amount of money; not even corpses came back up. After sitting there for about an hour, each lost in our own thoughts, we set off on our first patrol of the day.
"Freak! Creature! Abomination!" Bellatrix literally beat against the bars, not noticing the new wounds appearing on her emaciated body.
The first and second floors were mostly filled with thieves and swindlers, with a few smugglers. They were sent here for various terms, from one month to seven. After that, they were released. But those who had been to Azkaban at least once did everything they could to avoid coming back. Most of them never gave up their trade, becoming more cunning and devious. And if an unlucky one was caught in another Auror raid, they fought to the death. It was an unforgettable place.
"I hope you die! I HATE YOU! Rabastan, just let me get out of here, I'll castrate you, you bastard!" Bellatrix left a terrible impression; it seemed as if her tortured body was no longer capable of holding her soul. But madness, rage, anger, all of that kept her in this world. And then there was the mark. During the evening rounds, you could see her stroking it and laughing quietly, promising to drown the whole world in blood. If only her Master would return.
"Are you still alive?" I ask dryly and coldly, but I don't move away, watching her attempts to reach me. A former bastard who dared to survive, an indelible stain on the honour and pride of a witch. It was quiet in the cells of Rabastan and Rudolphus, but they were always listening. There was no madness in the eyes of my "father" and "uncle"; surprisingly, they had retained their sanity quite well.
"SCUM! CREATURE!
I slowly moved further down the corridor, looking at the inmates in their cells. I always had to check that everyone was alive and that there was nothing suspicious. Although where would anything else come from here? All the staff had taken an oath and signed a contract, which I had studied for several months in order to find a way to get around the restrictions. And there were many of them.
1. Prisoners must not be harmed directly or indirectly. Exceptions may be made in the event of an attack on a guard or military action on prison grounds, as confirmed by the prison warden.
2. Prisoners may not be given food, clothing, artefacts, potions, etc. (there were special spells on the bars that notified the authorities of such attempts, but some bribed young men were not deterred by the fear of losing their kickbacks for breaking their oath).
3. Employees are prohibited from disclosing any information about prisoners and all events in Azkaban. (Exception: personal order of the Minister authorising the disclosure of such information to employees).
I wished death upon all three Lestranges. It wasn't even hatred, more a necessity to save myself. After Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey managed to save the boy's life after his father's blood was burned out of him, the hunt for O'Hanley began. The boy spent six months in the hospital wing. He was not sent home for the summer. It was the headmaster's personal decision. And then it turned out that the boy had nowhere to return to. No matter how little wizards understood Muggle society, the creatures hired by Lady Lestrange dealt with Mrs. O'Henley that same summer. It was hard for the boy to study, his health was slow to recover, and he began to be bullied. Many from Slytherin and Ravenclaw were particularly vicious. Headmaster Dumbledore came to his rescue again, at the personal request of the compassionate Madam Sprout, who stood up for her student, and the ranks of the badgers closed. The boy didn't even go to the toilet alone. This is what helped save his life during his studies. During the summer holidays, his guardian (the headmaster) sent the young wizard to an old squib to work long days in greenhouses.
"Everything is in its place," I would sometimes say to Mr. Weasley, hoping to get an answer someday. He's an interesting and creepy guy.
I take an old book out of my bag, bought from a second-hand dealer: "A Thousand and One Magical Plants. Volume 1." Even though it contained a wealth of knowledge acquired by its previous owner through blood, sweat and tears, it was never too late to learn something new. Unpleasant memories began to swirl in my head, and several Dementors floated past the door. They were the ones causing him to react this way, shrugging his shoulders and looking back at the book.
"The root of lemon sage gets its special properties..."
Three stages to obtain the highest quality ingredient. But I don't have a greenhouse, and I have to dig up whatever grows in the forest.
My first appearance in this world was painful and dangerous. The previous owner had not long ago left his body with a crazy farewell spell, already transporting himself to a safe place with a portkey. I woke up in tall grass with my clothes torn, blood slowly oozing from my thigh. And then the pain came. It felt like this body had been mercilessly beaten, and breathing became difficult in an instant. I don't remember very well how I bandaged the wound with my own rags and then slowly dragged myself wherever my eyes took me. But it was like a fairy tale around me, with tall trees, greenery, and all kinds of creatures running around. When I saw them, I immediately realised that I had to get away quickly. They looked at me with interest, as if I were a delicacy. Later, I found a stick that had miraculously survived, hidden in my boot. I spent the night behind the forest, although I was still in a tree, tied to a branch. At night, I remembered the previous owner. Twenty years seemed to have been drilled into my skull, and I howled loudly. I was no longer worried about the dangerous creatures from the forest.
The second tour was just as boring, with the first and second floors screaming in terror and sometimes madness. At least the Dementors didn't visit them as often as the lower tiers. When I asked about it, the guys sent me to talk to the boss, saying that something special had been installed there. I didn't go to the boss. Approaching him without good reason was tantamount to moral suicide.
"Nastenka. I quietly approach Dolokhov's cell. Bella hasn't noticed me yet, and her screams haven't been drowned out by the other sounds." "Nastenka," whispered the prisoner, pressing himself against the wall. He was clearly delirious. This happened often here. If illness took its toll, the bodies were thrown straight off the cliff. There were several points in the magical agreement on what to do in the event of a prisoner's death. It was impossible to get out of Azkaban alive this way.
Strange as it may seem, these words, and even the name, were what made him remember his native language and his former life. A wave of longing washed over me, and another Dementor was heading my way. He wouldn't attack, he couldn't, but such influences were possible and no less dangerous. The pay here was good, considering the danger and the place of work. But few could work here. Even in shifts, after escaping to cosy homes with their wives and children. This place froze you from the inside out.
"Ridetta," the Dementor recoiled and floated towards the first floors. If I had been stronger, I would have said "Expecto Patronum," but I don't dream of what I don't have. After struggling through my first day at my new job, I decided that I had to find a way to influence these creatures. I found a way out, though not quite the way I wanted. The light potion was not very common, but it was not expensive and was considered simple, even a Hogwarts student could make it. Accordingly, it was not unattainable for me. The restriction on magic was a serious obstacle to many actions. Potions, transfiguration, charms... It wasn't that I couldn't cast advanced spells, I couldn't always cast intermediate ones. O'Henley passed his final exams thanks to his impeccable knowledge of theory, while the examiners looked at him with contempt and pity. Dumbledore's experiment was deemed a failure. Rumour had it that he could have defended his mastery of ritual magic, but the commission did not like the results. The magicians agreed that it would be better to kill the boy than to let him live like that.
The light potion worked for about 3-5 seconds. It could be applied to any object and activated with a key word. My improvement was that I learned to charge the potion with memories, the most joyful emotions from my past life. Somehow, it didn't work out. So I ended up with a kind of "scarecrow" for the Dementors.
"Dolokhov, are you planning to die?" Feeling the prisoner's gaze on me, I decided not to remain silent.
"You'll wait a long time." His voice was dry and cold; if anything could overcome his illness, it was the will of a magician. He was a fighter for the Devourers, a teacher and mentor to younger generations. Even knowing all this and remembering the books he had read out of interest about the Boy Who Lived, he still respected him. He didn't break, maybe he bent, but he didn't break. And not everyone can do that within the walls of this building. I'm moving on. His face with disgusting yellow stripes under his eyes constantly revolves in my mind. A week or two, then the disease will kill him. And then the cliff and the water. I clench my fists and move on. Two cells in a row belonged to Kerrow, brother and sister. They sometimes tried to reach through the bars and touch each other. Unsuccessfully. They hadn't been able to do anything for years. Sometimes you could hear their quiet conversations. Next were my dear relatives. As soon as she saw me, Bella pressed herself against the bars on her side and snarled at me like a dog. It must run in the Black family.
"Aunt Bella, how did you sleep?" I couldn't help myself. Still, I hope she dies before the canon. Even working here, I don't feel completely safe. The names of all the employees are classified. Only a few people from the Department of Secrets know them. And we are bound by oaths that prevent us from revealing our place of work. And it is very difficult and dangerous for an ordinary person to get here. But I knew the canon, and I also knew that the Master would come for his Devourers. They will be set free. All these years, there has been a price on my head — 250 Galleons. It will be paid to any mercenary at Gringotts Bank after they bring my head. Such is the magical fairy tale. And everyone knows it. There's nothing you can do about it. The Lestranges are already in Azkaban, and the mercenaries are still looking for Patrick O'Henley. The guard's salary was not bad, and I shared it with my informant, who found out who was coming to kill me each time, and with the goblins. They were a small and nasty bunch, but thanks to them, I was able to rent some artefacts, for which I gave up half my salary. And I always played it safe. In case any particularly clever mages or mercenaries had special identification artefacts, I used potions. Now the Boy Who Lived was in his third year of training. "The Prisoner of Azkaban" was the third part of the book. Dumbledore's unbalanced loyal dog. I didn't want to meet Black. How to save him, help him and guide him on the right path. I didn't feel like a hero, I didn't want to overcome anything, and life hadn't been kind to me. And I didn't want the headmaster's attention. It was good that the old man considered his experiment a failure and left Patrick alone, otherwise I would have been bound by oaths and vows.
A couple of days later, it was my shift again, and I had to replace Tomason again, although I was also assigned to replace his partner Stevenson. Naturally, with extra pay. After checking the first and second floors, I breathe a sigh of relief. Everyone is alive, and there are no bodies to carry out. Yesterday, my partner had to do that. One of the crooks had finally lost his mind and smashed his head against the wall in a fit of rage.
When I reached Dolokhov's cell, I took another look.
"Lumos," I said, and the light made it easier to see the prisoner. His breathing was too heavy, and his pale skin was covered with reddish spots.
"Dolokhov." The mage stirred and turned towards me. He was alive and still lucid; there was a chance. Should I take the risk? After reading the contract many times and double-checking my oath, I found a small loophole. It couldn't help me destroy Lestrange, but it could help Dolokhov. Maybe I was so moved by his condition because he was my compatriot? Even if only indirectly and in a past life? I didn't want to dwell on it. I crouch down and take out a small kitten. This artefact is specially given to children to dampen their magical emissions. I got this kitten at a discount from a junk dealer because one of its paws was hairless.
"Bald Paw," I've always had a hard time coming up with names. A sound like laughter came from the camera. "Bald Paw, this is for you," I say loudly. Scratching the artifact behind its ear with one hand, I take out bottles of restorative, invigorating, and healing potions with the other. The kitten was just like a real one, small, fluffy, and purring. This was the first cat that didn't poop in my shoes, scratch the furniture, or mark its territory. The perfect cat.
"Come on," I say, picking up the cat and continuing on my way. I gave the potions to him, not Dolokhov, and it's not my problem that Bald Paw didn't take them. I walk about ten metres and look back. The prisoners who are closer freeze in anticipation, and Bella is silent. Rudolphus has clearly shut her up.
Slowly, shuffling, Dolochov approached the bars, reached out and took the bottles.
"To your health, O Henley," the mage said, uncorking the bottle, drinking the first potion and freezing. The eyes of the other prisoners were fixed on me.
"You'll be waiting a long time," I muttered, walking on, but there was still no sign of the cart. Apparently, I do have a piano in the bushes after all — it's called brains. The main thing is to know how to use it.
The next week passed in anticipation and reflection. I didn't have to replace anyone, and since that was the case, access to the other floors was invalid. The guards on the first two floors were only allowed to move around in case of military action or an escape attempt. That week, I was lucky enough to dig up some wild mandrakes, which I sold to the Hogwarts greenhouses through a front man. The dean will be pleased.
Replacing Stevenson, I was finally able to see the results of my work. Antonin was alive and relatively healthy, as far as one can be with such neighbours.
"Why?" They stopped cursing me, and when I appeared on the floor, an unnatural silence fell. Antonin asked the question when I had already walked on.
"I wanted to." I couldn't explain to myself where such generosity came from.
"I would have killed you. First I would have tortured you, then killed you. That's how we all used to do it." A dry statement of fact. Yes, I already know that he is a creature, and I am a prison guard who has worked here longer than I should have. And apparently, it has left its mark. I silently check on Kerrow; they are drawn to each other again. What is this desire to see or touch a loved one? I wanted to think of them as monsters, but I wasn't exactly a saint myself. That's why it was easier to accept these prisoners as sick people. Incurable.
***
patreon.com/posts/7-text-files-7-151893491