He had a headache brewing, but there had been one haunting him since Harper had broken the news yesterday. That and the cold stone growing in his stomach. Over a hundred days confined to a cell in London was still better than the future which lay ahead. Back to Azkaban, back to the North Sea and the guards. Maybe he’d lose his other hand this time. Maybe he’d not be that lucky.

The ferry that had brought him to Charon’s Point from there the previous year only seemed like moments ago, and simultaneously a lifetime.

London weather had been oppressively warm according to the newspaper. Lawrence had only seen it from the enchanted windows of Level Two, which he was afforded some time beside in a quieter corner with a hitwizard minder or two. The bald one, who so reminded him of a war-time colleague, had become a regular. He did not engage in conversation with Lawrence, however much the incarcerated wizard wanted to quiz the hitwizard about the man in the dragonhide apron[1] he dreamt about some nights.

The headache was properly on its way now. Lawrence set aside the copy of Alice in Wonderland that Harper had loaned him and lay back on the bed, closing his eyes. His long brown and grey curls splayed around him on the flat pillow. It was just a Wednesday afternoon in August, and the sounds of Level 2 beyond the cell door were ordinary. It was so quiet he could hear the hitwizard blow his nose with hayfever and turn the page of his book. Minding him behind a locked door had become such a non-event even the minders caught up on reading. It was no wonder they were keen to ship him off to Azkaban, especially since the dementors had withdrawn in the heat.

And yet Lawrence shivered involuntarily. His skin prickled and goosebumped, though outside his cell the Hitwizard twirled his wand lazily to induce a cool breeze for comfort in the warmth.


“No.” Lawrence spoke aloud on reflex. No. It was hot, the dementors were retreating, he had been feeling stronger.


Trick of his imagination. Had to be. Stress of knowing he was going back. He was cracking again, simple fact. It was all in his head, made up. Not. Real.

Lawrence screwed his eyelids tight, the headache blooming, and tried to focus on the noise of reality, his unsteady breathing, the sniff of his guard, the fainter sounds of Level Two on a Wednesday afternoon. But he couldn’t ignore the growing feeling of excitement to hunt. The voices sounded like they were rooms away, but clear enough. Anticipation, haste, inhuman. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, the noise grew.

The dementors weren’t close, but they weren’t all that far either. Not here at the Ministry, but they had found a food source and were rallying, rallying him too, whether they knew it or not. It was fast becoming a cacophony and as he clapped his hands over his ears it wouldn’t stop. Something had awoken the dementors and they were flooding from the cool corners they had dispersed to converge.


“No, don’t, don’t…” Lawrence uttered out loud, hands pressed over his ears. The voices grew into a cacophony, a raucous chorus filling his thoughts. Outside in the passageway, his minder turned the next page in his book, wand curling through the air, channelling a cool breeze, feeling nothing but discomfort for the heat. Panicked, Lawrence stumbled to his feet, staggered to the door and battered unsteadily with his remaining hand.

“Dementors!” He croaked, throat tight. He tried again “Dementors!”

His minder paused mid-sentence and glanced to the closed door, replying dismissively.

“Uhuh.”

Feast, feast…

1.

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