A moment later, the broomstick went into the man's robes and vanished. Then the man's wand rose and tapped on his head, and with a sound like a cracking eggshell he disappeared once more.
Within the air blossomed a faint green spark, and Harry, still enshrouded in the Cloak of Invisibility, followed after.
If you had been watching from outside, you would have seen nothing but a small green spark drifting through the air, and a brilliantly silver humanoid walking after it.
They went down, and down, and down, passing gas lamp after gas lamp, and the occasional huge metal door, descending into Azkaban within what seemed like utter silence. Professor Quirrell had set up some type of barrier by which he could hear what went on nearby, but no sounds could pass outward, and no sounds could reach Harry.
Harry hadn't quite been able to stop his mind from wondering why the silence, or stop his mind from giving the answer. The answer he'd already known on some wordless level of anticipation that had prompted him to futilely try not to think about it.
Somewhere behind those huge metal doors, people were screaming.
The silver humanoid figure wavered, brightening and dimming, every time Harry thought about it.
Harry had been told to cast a Bubble-Head Charm on himself. To prevent himself from smelling anything.
All the enthusiasm and heroism had worn off already, as Harry had known it would, it hadn't taken long even by his standards, the process had completed itself the very first time they passed one of those metal doors. Every metal door was locked with a huge lock, a lock of simple unmagical metal that wouldn't have stopped a first-year Hogwarts student - if you still had a wand, if you still had your magic, which the prisoners didn't. Those metal doors were not the doors of individual cells, Professor Quirrell had said, each one opened into a corridor in which there would be a group of cells. Somehow that helped a little, not thinking that each door corresponded directly to a prisoner who was waiting right behind it. Instead there might be more than one prisoner, which diminished the emotional impact; just like the study showing that people contributed more when they were told that a given amount of money was required to save one child's life, than when told the same total amount was needed to save eight children...
Harry was finding it increasingly hard not to think about it, and every time he did, the light of his Patronus fluctuated.
They came to the place where the passageway turned left, at the corner of the triangular building. Once again there were descending metal steps, another flight of stairs; once again they went down.
Mere murderers were not put into the lowest of cells. There was always a lower place you could go, an even worse punishment to fear. No matter how low you had already sunk, the government of magical Britain had some threat remaining against you if you did even worse.
But Bellatrix Black had been the Death Eater who inspired more fear than anyone save Lord Voldemort himself, a beautiful and deadly sorceress absolutely loyal to her master; she had been, if such a thing were possible, more sadistic and evil even than You-Know-Who, as though she were trying to outdo her master...
...that was what the world knew of her, what the world believed of her.
But before then, Professor Quirrell had told Harry, before the debut of the Dark Lord's most terrible servant, there had been a girl in Slytherin who had been quiet, keeping mostly to herself, harming no one. Afterward there had been made-up stories told about her, memories changing in retrospect (Harry knew well the research on that). But at the time, while she still attended school, the most talented witch in Hogwarts had been known as a gentle girl (Professor Quirrell had said). Her few friends had been surprised when she'd joined the Death Eaters, and more surprised that she'd been hiding so much darkness behind that sad, wistful smile.
That was who Bellatrix had once been, the most promising witch of her own generation, before the Dark Lord stole her and broke her, shattered her and reshaped her, binding her to him on a deeper level and with darker arts than any Imperius.
Ten years Bellatrix had served the Dark Lord, killing who he bade her kill, torturing who he bade her torture.
And then the Dark Lord had finally been defeated.
And Bellatrix's nightmare had continued.
Somewhere inside Bellatrix there might be something that was still screaming, that had been screaming the whole time, something a psychiatric Healer could bring back; or there might not be, Professor Quirrell had no way of knowing. But either way, they could...
...they could at least get her out of Azkaban...
Bellatrix Black had been put into the lowest level of Azkaban.
Harry was having trouble not imagining what he would see when they got to her cell. Bellatrix must have had almost no fear of death, in the beginning, if she was still alive at all.
They descended another flight of stairs, coming that much closer to Death and Bellatrix, the clacking of their invisible shoes the only sound that Harry could hear. Dim orange light coming from the gas lights, the faint green spark drifting through the air, the shining figure following with its silver light fluctuating from time to time.
After descending many times, they came in time to a corridor that did not end in stairs, and a final metal door, and the green spark halted before it.
Harry's heart had calmed a little, as they descended far into the depths of Azkaban without anything happening. But now it was hammering his chest once more. They were at the bottom, and the shadows of Death were very close at hand.
A soft metal click came from the lock, as Professor Quirrell opened the way.
Harry took a deep breath and remembered everything that Professor Quirrell had told him. The hard part wouldn't just be getting the pretended personality right enough to fool Bellatrix Black herself, the hard part would be keeping his Patronus going at the same time...
The green spark winked out, and a moment later a meter-high snake shimmered into existence, no longer invisible.
The metal door moved with a slow creaking sound as Harry pushed on it with his invisible hand, opened it just a crack, and peered through.
He saw a straight corridor that terminated in solid stone. There was no light there but what crept in from Harry's Patronus. That was bright enough for him to see the outer bars of the eight cells set into the corridor, but he couldn't see the insides; more importantly, though, he didn't see anyone in the corridor itself.
"I ssee nothing," hissed Harry.
The snake darted on ahead, swiftly twisting across the floor.
A moment later -
"Sshe iss alone," hissed the snake.
Stay, Harry thought to his Patronus, which took up a position just to one side of the door, as though guarding it; and then Harry pushed the door open further, and followed within.
The first cell Harry looked at contained a dessicated corpse, skin gone grey and mottled, flesh worn through in places to expose the bone beneath, no eyes -
Harry shut his eyes. He could still do that, he was still invisible, he wasn't betraying anything by shutting his eyes.
He'd known it already, he'd read it on page six of his Transfiguration book, that you stayed in Azkaban until your prison term was done. If you died before it was up they kept you there until they released your corpse. If your term was for life, they just left the body in the cell until the cell was needed, at which point they threw your body into the Dementors' pit. But it was still a shock to see, that corpse had been a person who'd just been left there -
The light in the room wavered.
Steady, thought Harry in his core. It wouldn't be good for Professor Quirrell if that Patronus went out from his thinking sad thoughts. This near to the Dementors the Defense Professor might just fall dead where he stood. Steady, Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, steady!
With that thought, Harry opened his eyes again, there wasn't time to waste.
The second cell he looked at contained only a skeleton.
And behind the bars of the third cell he saw Bellatrix Black.<
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Something precious and irreplaceable inside Harry withered like dry grass.
You could tell the woman wasn't a skeleton, that her head wasn't a skull, because the texture of skin was still different from the texture of bone, no matter how white and pale she'd become, waiting in the dark alone. Either they weren't feeding her much, or what she ate, the shadows of Death drained from her; for her eyes seemed shrunken below their lids, her lips looked too shriveled to close over her teeth. The color seemed leached out of the black clothing she had worn into prison, like the Dementors had drained that too. They'd been meant to be daring, those clothes, and now they lay loosely over a skeleton, exposing shriveled skin.
I'm here to save her, I'm here to save her, I'm here to save her, Harry thought to himself, desperately, over and over with an effort like Occlumency, willing his Patronus not to go out, to stay and protect Bellatrix from the Dementors -
In his heart, in his core, Harry held to all his pity and his compassion, his will to save her from the darkness; the silver radiance coming in through the open door brightened, even as he thought it.
And in another part of him, like he was just letting another part of his mind carry out a habit without paying much attention to it...
A cold expression came over Harry's face, invisibly beneath the hood.
"Hello, my dear Bella," said a chill whisper. "Did you miss me?"
Chapter 53: The Stanford Prison Experiment, Pt 3
The corpse of a woman opened her eyes, and the dull sunken orbs gazed out at nothing.
"Mad," Bellatrix muttered in a cracked voice, "It seems that little Bella is going mad..."
Professor Quirrell had instructed Harry, calmly and precisely, how he was to act in Bellatrix's presence; how to form the pretense he would maintain in his mind.
You found it expedient, or perhaps just amusing, to make Bellatrix fall in love with you, to bind her to your service.
That love would have persisted through Azkaban, Professor Quirrell had said, because to Bellatrix it would not be a happy thought.
She loves you utterly, completely, with her whole being. You do not return her love, but consider her useful. She knows this.
She was the deadliest weapon you possessed, and you called her your dear Bella.
Harry remembered it from the night the Dark Lord killed his parents: the cold amusement, the contemptuous laughter, that high-pitched voice of deathly hate. It didn't seem at all difficult to guess what the Dark Lord would say.
"I hope you are not mad, Bella dear," said the chill whisper. "Mad is not useful."
Bellatrix's eyes flickered, tried to focus on empty air.
"My... Lord... I waited for you but you did not come... I looked for you but I could not find you... you are alive..." All her words came out in a low mutter, if there was emotion in it, Harry could not tell.
"Sshow her your face," hissed the snake at Harry's feet.
Harry cast back the hood of the Cloak of Invisibility.
The part of him that Harry had placed in control of his facial expressions looked at Bella without the slightest trace of pity, only cool, calm interest. (While in his core, Harry thought, I will save you, I will save you no matter what...)
"The scar..." muttered Bellatrix. "That child..."
"So they all still think," said Harry's voice, and gave a thin little chuckle. "You looked for me in the wrong place, Bella dear."
(Harry had asked why Professor Quirrell couldn't be the one to play the part of the Dark Lord, and Professor Quirrell had pointed out that there was no plausible reason for him to be possessed by the shade of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.)
Bellatrix's eyes remained fixed on Harry, she said no word.
"Ssay ssomething in Parsseltongue," hissed the snake.
Harry's face turned to the snake, to make it clear that he was addressing it, and hissed, "One two three four five ssix sseven eight nine ten."
There was a pause.
"Those who do not fear the darkness..." murmured Bellatrix.
The snake hissed, "Will be conssumed by it."
"Will be consumed by it," whispered the chill voice. Harry didn't particularly want to think about how Professor Quirrell had gotten that password. His brain, which thought about it anyway, suggested that it had probably involved a Death Eater, a quiet isolated place, and some lead-pipe Legilimency.
"Your wand," murmured Bellatrix, "I took it from the Potters' house and hid it, my lord... under the tombstone to the right of your father's grave... will you kill me, now, if that was all you wished of me... I think I must have always wanted you to be the one to kill me... but I can't remember now, it must have been a happy thought..."
Harry's heart wrenched inside him, it was unbearable, and - and he couldn't cry, couldn't let his Patronus fade -
Harry's face showed a flicker of annoyance, and his voice was sharp as it said, "Enough foolishness. You're to come with me, Bella dear, unless you prefer the company of the Dementors."
Bellatrix's face twitched in brief puzzlement, the shrunken limbs did not stir.
"You'll need to float her out," Harry hissed to the snake. "Sshe can no longer think of esscaping."
"Yess," hissed the snake, "but do not underesstimate her, sshe wass the deadliesst of warriorss." The green head dipped in warning. "One would be wisse to fear me, boy, even were I sstarved and nine-tenthss dead; be wary of her, allow no ssingle flaw in your pretensse."
The green snake smoothly glided out of the door.
And shortly after, a man with sallow skin and a fearful expression on his bearded face cringed into the room with his wand in hand.
"My Lord?" the servant said falteringly.
"Do as you were instructed," the Dark Lord whispered in that chill voice, sounding even more terrible coming from a child's body. "And do not let your Patronus falter. Remember, if I do not return there will be no reward for you, and it will be long before your family is allowed to die."
Having spoken those dreadful words, the Dark Lord pulled his invisibility cloak over his head, and disappeared.
The cringing servant opened the door to Bellatrix's cage, and pulled a tiny needle from his robes with which he poked the human skeleton. The single drop of red blood produced was soon absorbed into a small doll, which was laid upon the floor, and the servant began to chant in a whisper.
Soon another living skeleton lay upon the floor, motionless. Afterward the servant seemed to hesitate for a moment, until from the empty air hissed an impatient command. Then the servant pointed his wand at Bellatrix and spoke a word, and the living skeleton lying on the bed was naked, and the skeleton lying on the floor was clothed in her faded dress.
The servant tore a small strip of cloth from the dress, as it lay upon the seeming corpse; and from his own robes, the fearful man then produced an empty glass flask with small traces of golden fluid clinging to its inside. This flask was concealed in a corner, the strip of skirt laid over it, the leached cloth nearly blending with the gray metal wall.
Another wave of the servant's wand floated the human skeleton lying on the bed into the air, and in almost the same motion clothed her in new black robes. An ordinary-looking bottle of chocolate milk was put into her hand, and a chill whisper ordered Bellatrix to grasp the bottle and begin drinking it, which she did, her face still looking only puzzled.
Then the servant turned Bellatrix invisible, and turned himself invisible, and they left. The door closed behind them all and clicked as it locked, plunging the corridor into darkness once more, unchanged but for a small flask concealed in the corner of one cell, and a fresh corpse lying upon its floor.
Earlier, in the deserted shop, Professor Quirrell had told Harry that they were going to commit the perfect crime.
Harry had unthinkingly started to repeat back the standard proverb that there was no such thing as a perfect crime, before he actually thought about it for two-thirds of a second, remembered a wiser proverb, and shut his mouth in midsentence.
&nb
sp; What do you think you know, and how do you think you know it?
If you did commit the perfect crime, nobody would ever find out - so how could anyone possibly know that there weren't perfect crimes?
And as soon as you looked at it that way, you realized that perfect crimes probably got committed all the time, and the coroner marked it down as death by natural causes, or the newspaper reported that the shop had never been very profitable and had finally gone out of business...
When Bellatrix Black's corpse was found dead in her cell the next morning, there within the prison of Azkaban from which (everyone knew) no one had ever escaped, nobody bothered doing an autopsy. Nobody thought twice about it. They just locked up the corridor and left, and the Daily Prophet reported it in the obituary column the next day...
...that was the perfect crime which Professor Quirrell had planned.
And it wasn't Professor Quirrell who screwed it up.
Chapter 54: The Stanford Prison Experiment, Pt 4
A faint green spark moved forward to set the pace, and behind it followed a brilliant silver figure, all other entities invisible. They had traversed five legs of corridor, turned right five times and gone up five flights of stairs; and when Bellatrix had finished her second bottle of chocolate milk, she had been given solid bars of chocolate to eat.
It was after her third bar of chocolate that strange noises began to come from Bellatrix's throat.
It took a moment for Harry to understand, to process the sounds, it didn't sound like anything he'd ever heard before; the rhythm of it was shattered, almost unrecognizable, it took him that long to realize that Bellatrix was crying.
Bellatrix Black was crying, the Dark Lord's most terrible weapon was crying, she was invisible but you could hear it, tiny pathetic sounds she was trying to suppress, even now.
"It's real?" said Bellatrix. Tonality had returned into her voice, no longer a dead mutter, it rose up at the end to form the question. "It's real?"
Yes, thought the part of Harry simulating the Dark Lord, now be silent -
Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality Page 85
