His Mark
[Knowledge is Power]

16th August  2018
Thursday

It had been snowing endlessly for days, and the pleasantly clear, fresh autumn air was filled with anticipation for the coming festivities, although trembling and vibrating under the bitter cold wind.

All Hallow's Eve was after all an important date in this world of magic.

The white coat of winter had prematurely spread over the former colorful roofs of Diagon Alley caressing them like a cold, soft blanket made of shiny velvet. The silken threads of cold, from which it was woven, shimmering crystal clear and silvery white like a glistening thin layer of icing sugar and atomized glass in the cold autumn sun.

A figure reveled in the cool, glistening white beauty of the wintery landscape- it was his third stay  in this dream like world since he had first walked through it's streets just before his first year at Hogwarts, and stood gracefully in a corridor of Ollivanders wand shop in the heart of Diagon Alley.
The icy whiff of winter poked at the glass windows as the steaming, frosty breath and biting cold painted delicate ice crystals and intricate ice flowers on the fogged glass of the high, narrow arched windows.

Behind one of these beautifully curved, arched windows, loomed the silhouette of a- for his age, rather tall boy.
Although his stature showed a young boy right in his element, one look into his eyes could tell you that he felt lost, and dreadfully out of place, as he stood there between the endless stacks of wands in the narrow corridor of his new home.

Short fire-red locks shimmered under the candlelight, flattering his pale, face with gentle, almond-shaped eyes, one walnut-brown, and the other of such a bright, crystal blue as the mirror-like surface of a mountain lake in the winter sun. It was those mismatched eyes, framed by silky fiery-red lashes, and the emotions hiding in their depths, that rendered the boy different, placing him on a higher pedestal from others of his age.

Those eyes told a story, sang a song, like a bird singing of its painful, wistful wish to escape the cage in which it is imprisoned, singing out into the world with no hope of ever being heard.
Those eyes sang and told of dreams and tears of longing, hope and pain.
The silent sound of that melody always surrounded the boy's graceful figure with a touch of loneliness and sadness, enveloping him in a silent, dark cloak of anger and longing, that seemed much too heavy for such a young soul to bear.

The boy with the mismatched eyes was already surrounded by a remarkable magical aura at the tender age of thirteen- soon to be fourteen.
It was this magical aura- that seemed to be all around him, and those mismatched eyes that seemed as though they could look into your very soul, that gave him that touch of mystery.

Those characteristics mixed with his appearance, which at first glance seemed unremarkable- yet filled by elegance and grace, was what made others flock to him.

Everything about him seemed breathtaking and charming.

When he walked, he seemed to float, carried by invisible wings, giving off an aura of longing dreams and fantasies.
When he stopped motionless and looked into the distance with his mismatched eyes, he seemed strangely remote and detached, almost invisible, as though he were not of this world.

As transparent and feathery as the wind.

A silent inhabitant of his own small, glassy lair, to which no one else had access.

It was this boy who had dared to take his first steps in Hogwarts just over two years ago.

This boy was Aileen Geraint Gaunt, and he was on his way to Azkaban.

***************
Gray, relentless waves grudgingly pushed the small ancient looking ferry towards its destination.

My clothes and hair clung to my skin, chilling me to the bone, yet the only reaction that I let myself show was annoyance.
I had given up on using the warming spell on this forsaken waters a long time ago.
I pushed my hair out of my eyes, desperately trying to shield them from the salty waters that threatened to sink the small ferry at any minute.

I gazed into the distance toward the haunted looking island, upon it resided a grey triangular fortress that was unmistakably the well known Wizard prison.

"Azkaban" I muttered lowly, as we got closer to the island, the waves pushing us closer to the godforsaken place.

"Mister Ollivander, we will be reaching land shortly. I trust that you have informed yourself on the proceedings and rules of Azkaban?"
"I have, Mister Haros.", I replied emotionlessly.

The ferryman, an old and bald man shrouded in black robes tapped a spot in front of the boat with his wand. What I had read in various books on the "speculated" ways on how to reach Azkaban told me to grab on tightly to the sides of the ferry as it floated onto the air and carried us safely above the crashing waves.

The ferry landed onto the uneven ground with a soft tud, just a few feet from the prison.
A mix of sand and jutting rocks weathered to a makeshift path to the imposing building.

Instead of a customary door, or a typical prison gate, the arched doorway held a sheet of seemingly impenetrable silver material.
Haros placed his hand on the sheet of silver and it melted away, like candle wax - sliding to oblivion.
He bowed me in, and I gave the old man a small nod of acknowledgement, as I entered the grey stone corridor.

My wand was confiscated shortly upon entrance, tests and questions to determine my identity were given.

Thanks to Harry Potter Azkaban was now overseen by wizards instead of Dementors, which gave rise to higher security practises to prevent a prison outbreak.
There had only been one prisoner escape since these changes had been implemented.

Shame...I would have liked to see an actual Dementor. I thought absentmindedly as the aurors continued to inspect me.

After the proceedings, I was lead through grey and draughty corridors stationed with Aurors at various intervals.
It was similar to walking through the stone corridors in Gringotts, and yet completely different at the same time.

I looked at the prisoners with a mixture of interest, pity and disdain- there were some that just lay there, bored or staring sullenly at the gray walls, some who abruptly filled the air with unearthly shrieks and others who sat pitifully crying their souls out- both groups were old prisoners, all the hope that they once possessed had long since vanished.

"We'll give you some space Mister Ollivander," My escorter nodded respectfully, and then proceeded to stand at the end of the corridor, watching my every move.

I sat on the ledge that was screwed to the bars of the cells, pulling out dear father's necklace as Anthony Yaxley strode gracefully towards me, the surprise apparent in his gray-blue eyes upon seeing me, slowly changing into recognition as his gaze fell upon Salazar Slytherin's necklace, and then confusion, as he sat down on a wooden chair that looked even more uncomfortable then the ledge I was sitting on.

We just sat there for a while- staring at each other.
Me appraising the man that had once almost blindly followed my fath- Voldemort's every whim, and at the same time been nothing but kind towards my mother.
And Yaxley, well he seemed to be putting two and two together as his eyes scanned over my face for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"My wife had mentioned you before young lord, she said that-" he broke off mid sentence, his eyes wandering down to Slytherins necklace which was displayed in such a way that only he could see it.
"You look so much like the both of them…" Anthony Yaxley trailed off, the authoritative tone in his voice vanishing, as  his gaze wandered from the necklace up to my fiery red hair, to my mismatched eyes.

"But that surname, how?" He asked with curiosity, his tone void of the authority that he was surely used to display toward others.
He spoke to me almost as if we were equal, seeming slightly unsure if he should show me the same respect as he did to my father.

Obviously knowing both my mother's kind nature, and father's superiority complex, made him bounced of from honorifics, to casual speech.

"Mother was related to the Ollivanders." I answered curtly, a bitter smile tearing at my lips at the thought of her.
"I apologise for speaking out of line, I wasn't aware that- in here one doesn't really get to know much of what goes on out there." Anthony Yaxley spoke in- what coming from anyone else would be considered a soothing voice, but coming from him it sounded almost pitting and forced.

"I must however ask, what someone such as yourself want's from a convicted Death Eater like me…" Yaxleys voice had taken on a tone that while still respectful, had a certain edge to it which I couldn't quite place.

"I came here with the intention of making a proposition…"
I answered coolly, staring back at the shadow of what was once a great man.
"And depending on your answer, there might even be a chance at freedom." I whispered so that he, and only he could hear.
Anthony Yaxley sat down even straighter on his sad excuse of a chair- which almost seems like a throne with him seated on it.
"You'd better not be feeding this tired old man lies." His spoke nonchalant, however I had seen the slight flicker of hope that had briefly crossed his eyes.

"As you surely know, Slytherin's descendants always keep their end of the bargain." I spoke calculatedly, emotionlessly, just like I had witnessed dear father do countless times through mother's diary.

Yaxleys expression changed to one of recognition, after sensing almost the same authority radiating off me as the young version of his Dark Lord.

Reliving mother's interactions with ‘dear father’  over and over again have paid off.

So after short, but firm reassuring words that none of these unpleasantness would ever reach his daughter's ears, we continued our conversation undisturbed.
The watchman got suddenly much too preoccupied with the ruckus of other prisoners to keep watch on a mere teen talking to an old Death Eater who was nearing his last days.