His Mark [Tom Riddle's son] DISCONTINUED

Cordelia- Just Another Visit to Azkaban

His Mark
[Knowledge is Power]

10th June 2016
Friday

Since I was three, I've decided that boats and grey were high on my Things I Hate List.

It was growing by the minute as the gray, foamy waves battered us to our destination, grudgingly taking us to our destination.My clothes and hair were plastered to my skin, sticking to it like a second membrane.

I hate the cold I thought bitterly to myself, hugging myself to preserve the little warmth I had.

I spat out sea water with a little vomit into the colorless sea, my eyes watering from the sea spray. I closed my eyes- there was nothing to see but various shades of gray and dullness. Oh how I would like to be by the fire and to be warm and dry, away from this terrible abyss.

I hate seawater I added.

As if God heard my thoughts, the weight of cold and water lifted from my clothes. I slowly unfurled my eyelids and gave my Mother a weak thankful smile that she ignored; all her attention was diverted on the weathered tower, guarded like a swarm of sharks by a circle of cropped, jagged rocks and the foaming, angry sea.

I watched my mother as she gazed at the triangular fortress, her brown eyes holding the same hard glint that she always had, though this time it was for sorrow, not for pride. Her short raven hair stayed stubbornly dry, her mouth was pursed in a hard line.

I was my mother in miniature, down to the long, slim finger that we shared to the sheet of raven hair that was as dark as night. But if I was the sun, she was the moon, pale and cold, and if I was a warm, crackling fire, she was a freshly calved iceberg.

"Madame Yaxley, we will be landing shortly. I trust that you know the proceedings and rules of Azkaban?"
"I do, Mister Haros. Please continue",Mother replied cooly.

Our ferryman, an old and bald man shrouded in black robes tapped a spot in front of the boat with his wand. Years of experience taught me to grab on tightly to the sides as the boat floated in the air and carried us safely above the crashing waves. I shuddered as I saw an unidentifiable carcass, catching a glimpse of a flash of bone could be seen in a clump of gray flesh.

We landed with a soft thud on the uneven ground.
We were a few feet from the prison, the mix of sand and jutting rocks weathered to a path to the domineering building. There was no name on the building, it was a cursed name, and those who came did not a plaque to know the name of their prison.

Azkaban

The arched doorway held a sheet of a silver material instead of a customary door, seeming impenetrable. Haros placed his hand on the sheet of silver and it melted away, sliding to oblivion.
He bowed us in, my mother giving not one gesture of acknowledgement.
As our footsteps moved away, the silver substance glided upwards like a waterfall moving up and solidifying to it's original solid form.

Our wands were confiscated, tests, questions to determine our identity were given.
Since the Second Wizarding War, Azkaban was guarded by wizards instead of Dementors, which gave rise to higher security practises to prevent a prison outbreak.
The Aurors did surprisingly well- since Harry Potter came to be Head Auror there was only one prisoner escape.

After the proceedings, we were lead through dry and draughty corridors stationed with Aurors at various intervals.
I retreated into my cloak as the cold attacked me with icy fingers, feeling a twinge of sympathy for my father. To an outsider, my mother's demeanor would have shown as much change as the Antarctic lands-only I could see the subtle quickening of her pace and the slight widening of her eyes.
In this place of death and where the carriers of death once stood, she was more alive than ever.