First Report, Verbal, by Senior Auror John Talisker, Concluded

  Given to Head Auror Harry Potter & Minister for Magick Kingsley Shacklebolt

  ***

  Yesterday.

  Monday, July 28th, 2014. Dusk.

  Azkaban Prison, "The Rocks"

  The North Sea

  ***

  TOP SECRET - DO NOT RELEASE TO M.O.M. FILE!

  (NOTE: Language has been converted to English from Whatever It Is that Talisker Speaks - Demelli).

  After Fawksey apparently buggered off, (John! Language!) (And bugger that too, Demelli. The adults are talking). Anyway, I stood in uffish thought awhile. This was definitely out of control, and I had waited too long. I literally threw up my hands, just as I was mentally throwing away years of work.

  I ducked into the Pillar Room, with my grìs-fhuachd more pronounced than ever. Coming out with a small bundle under my arm, I walked quickly up the Hallway to the Rec Room. Going in, I found only Shamir and Rosey.

  "Red Alert still on?" I asked. Shamir nodded, giving the bundle a curious glance.

  "We're going to start as we mean to go on," he said. "Everybody is on board except the usuals."

  Rosey added, "And they're so tired of being sat on, they're confining themselves to baleful mutters. Oh, and I have all Bates' old crew right where I can lay hands on them. Most of them seem to be relieved to be rid of the old sot, but you can't be too careful."

  "Too bloody right!" I said with feeling. I looked at the big man. "Rosey, w'd y' mind givin' me an' Shamir th' room? Got sumthin' to chew over."

  Shamir gave me a sharp look, then said to Rosey. "Like he said, if you don't mind."

  The Barracks Boss beamed at us, and clapped me on the shoulder. (Damn, it hurt. And I couldn't show a bit of it, of course).

  “Ah, go boil your heads, both of you," he said. “Johnny... you're an Auror.

  "He's a what?" Shamir blurted. I'll bet I looked as shocked as him.

  "An Auror," Rosey repeated, and clapped me on the shoulder again. (Lad should get a job as a Pile Driver. Save a bleeding fortune on construction magick). "And a bloody good one, I'd say."

  Questions were tumbling over each other in my head. What made it to my mouth was, "How d'ye know?"

  He shrugged, and sat back on the extruded granite that served us for lounging furniture. "Raised around Aurors. Raised by an Auror, in fact." He looked around. "Old story. Stupid teener, bad crowd, bad mistakes. People got hurt. Wound up here, full of rage and hate and Black Magick."

  He met my eyes. "Then someone pulled me out from under a pile of like-minded lads who were trying to kill me. Who had good and sufficient reason to kill me. And he told the lot of them he had been looking for someone stupid enough to be a 'George.' That tickled them, and, besides, you don't cross Whisky John."

  "I was just a lad, but I was already bigger than you. And stronger than you. And I told you where you could stick..." He trailed off giving his deep rumble of a chuckle.

  "That afternoon, you showed me the difference between a boy and a man with your fists. And ever since, you've been showing me the difference with your life. It was what I needed from my relatives, but never would have taken. I would have tried to kill them." He shook his head. "Rage and Hate. And don't forget Dark Magick."

  He crooked a smile at Shamir. "And he never said a single, solitary word about my magick, for or against. The one time I asked, he looked stern. Said magick was a journey you have to take by yourself. None of his 'dom' business. And, guess what? My journey took me away from the Dark." He grinned at me. "And some of those that were trying to kill me are my Best Lads, now."

  Shamir had been looking from Rosey to me. Maybe he was remembering a skinny young man with a smart mouth, and a whole Bunk Room's worth of bruises.

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  "You're an Auror." It was a simple statement. "So. why now? And what about our Ear in the Sky?"

  "Now is when we need help. And either Fawksey hez our back, er he doesn't" I frowned. "And these dom' people ere too leery-loonie for us t' say what they will or won't du, er why."

  "I, for one, won't deny that I was not enamored of our long-term prospects." Rosey rolled his eyes. "To be honest, I was wondering what was taking you so long."

  "Ah had ut in m'heid that they were kind of a passin' thing, deaths and all. An ah thought I c'd do more good here."

  "So what do you need from us?" Shamir asked.

  I grimaced. "Ah've a way oot, in one a' th' Solitary Cells. But someone hez t' seal me in. I cannae do ut m'self."

  "Bad planning," said Rosey placidly.

  I rolled my eyes. "Hindsight." I unrolled the bundle I was carrying.

  "Ah," Shamir said. "A guard's uniform. I see."

  "Aye. I doubt seriously these dunderheids all know each other by sight, and Herself said they had suborned some of the guards..."

  "Not much of a chance," said Rosey, leaning forward elbows on knees.

  "It's the chance we've got." Shamir's voice was hard, as he put the uniform on over the clothes he was wearing. As worn as his current outfit was, it was unlikely to show through the guard's clothing.

  I handed over a rune-covered cylinder. "This'll open th' Airlock Door from either side." I'm sure the grin I gave him was strained. " 'Tis also a fine size and weight t' hide in y'r hand, should y' need t'..." I left the rest up to him.

  "What's this?" He indicated a velvet-lined circular scabbard that attached to the belt.

  "Wand holster." I handed him Bates' Augury Wand. "S'posed t' be enchanted so only th' wand owner can draw it, but that one is'nae."

  He held the wand up. "I hope I don't have to try to use this abomination."

  I shrugged. "Wull, it c'd be said that ye captured it in battle, so it may look to you now, enyway. Might be a help agin Dementors and Eaters."

  "Oh. In that case." He held up the wand and spoke to it. "I sincerely apologise. You are a fine looking stick, and the bad light in here made me rush to judgement."

  He waved it tentatively, and a decent-sized cloud of sparks trailed from the tip.

  Shamir gave a satisfied nod. "That'll do, Stick." He holstered the wand.

  ***

  The guard uniforms came with what I would call an anemic Tam O'Shanter, or a Frenchman would think of as an over-sized Beret. Technically, it was a rule that the guards weren't supposed to let inmates see their faces. Some did, some didn't, (case in point; my tormentors). The berets had illusion magic worked in, much like the Weasley's Headless Hats. The illusionery face was generic, immobile, and expressionless. The voice was also altered, so all guards sound the same.

  We only passed one other person on the way. He was an older man with a bit of a potbelly, and he was wearing a guard's uniform as well. It was rumpled and badly creased, as if he had slept in it for several days. He wasn't wearing a beret.

  His gaze was incurious as he looked us over. I had my head down, wrists tied before me by a modified Incarcerous.

  "What do we have here?" he asked. His tone plainly stated that he didn't really care.

  "Dunno." Shamir's altered voice had no inflection to it. "Fawkesworthy said bang him up, and up he shall be banged."

  The grin he received in return was malicious. "You taking orders from Talky Fawkie now?"

  Shamir made a noise that didn't translate, probably a snort of derision. "As long as she is looking over his shoulder, you're bloody well right I am."

  The other man tensed, and took a quick look up and down the corridor. "Good point," he admitted.

  Shamir gave me a shove to get me moving again. The other man waited a moment, then spoke.

  "You know, Murchison, if they do decide to double cross us, hiding your face won't help."

  We stopped again. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Shamir look back.

  "How many did they bring in this last bunch?"

  "Maybe two hundred. Why?" I could hear uncertainty in his voice.

  "That many can't know everybody by sight. I might be able to blend in, with a few bits of Italian, and a stupid enough look." Even expressionless, something about the words was disdainful. "But only if I haven't been sticking my fat face into everybody else's business."

  "Oh."

  "Just a little warning,' Shamir said. "It would be more... healthy, if you never spoke to me, or about me, ever again."

  There was no reply as we continued down the hall.

  ***

  We approached the entrance to the Solitary/Secure Wing. I had no idea how it fit in with the Barracks Wings. All wings I know of end at the Outside Recreation Area, even though they are on different floors. The which we knew because of the view from our pitiful excuse for windows. The same views told us which barracks were on top and bottom. We can't even confirm that from the Quidditch pitches. All we see from up there is one undifferentiated roof, stretching to the uneven edges of a massive single building. And no matter where you land, it seems to be solid roof. That was our bounds. When Quidditch was on, the roof-level Shield over the Outside Recreation Area went away, and simple warning shields went up from the edges of the entire complex. And everybody stayed well away from them, on penalty of losing the privilege.

  We slowed before entering, to check for other people. Unlike the inmate barracks, the hallway was centrally located, and narrower, more like a corridor. I have no idea how far back it went. The Solitary cells were right up against the entrance, and beyond them the light crystals gradually dimmed away to darkness.

  We were alone. The cell I needed was second on the right. We had stashed Bates in the first on the left. I looked for signs of his interrogation, but found nothing. Anything physical of that nature would have automatically been cleaned by the magic of the floor and walls. But...

  "Do you feel that?" Shamir's voice was stripped of personality, but I'm sure he was sensing the same uncanny effect. There was the greasy feel of Dark Magic, and an aural overlay of shrieking madness, barely controlled. And blood, and pain...

  "Strong," I muttered. "And mad as a March Hare. Hurry."

  All the doors were open wide. They were circular slabs, much like the doors of a bank vault, and fit into their openings much the same. I paused in the door.

  "Tap yer wand on tha' glowing red section of the edge. When th' door closes, tap the circular boss in th' center of the door, and choose a length of lock down. It dis'nae matter what you choose, th' door of this cell will stay locked down until I release the internal spell. They'll nae be able to pop it like they did with the Bates baggage."

  He nodded, and I went on. "Get yerself back t' Barracks. Leave th' uniform in th' hidden locker I showed ye in the Airlock Door. They du nae know it, but that complicate junction of corridors there is a blind spot in their security."

  "Keep th' wand with ye, er not as ye see fit." I gave him a strained smile as the door ponderously swung to. "Atter all, y'r the Boss." The projected face, of course, had no reaction.

  As the final sliver of gap disappeared, I heard a voice shout. "You, there! What are you doing?"

  Starting MONDAY. The Battle For Azkaban!

  Next Chapter will post on Monday, February 16th, at or around Noon, US EST, (Greenwich -5).