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remix_reduxTitle: Never Alone in the Dark (The Night Shift Remix)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kyasuriin
Summary: On August 22nd Earl has been a guard at Azkaban for two years. He's not used to visitors, especially ones named Harry Potter
Rating: R
Fandom: Harry Potter
Warnings: References to violence
Spoilers: None
Original story: Never Alone in the Dark bygreenspine
Notes: Many thanks to my amazing goddess of a beta.
On August 22nd, Earl had been a guard at Azkaban for a year. Not that he was celebrating – of course not – but it was somewhat of an accomplishment. He had lasted longer than any of the other guards. He thought about this as he walked down the dimly lit corridor, barred doors on his right and left. A light near the end of the hallway flickered but Earl paid it no mind, like many of the things in Azkaban. The dampness of Azkaban used to sink into his bones, used to make his skin crawl, so much that he ran a hot bath as soon as he came home just to wash the slime and dirt from his skin. Soon he stopped bathing after his shift once he realised no matter how hard he scrubbed it was never going to come off.
His steps were steady as he turned and walked back the way he had come. The echo of his footsteps on the concrete was loud enough to make his presence known but not loud enough to drown out the whispering, the crying, the strange supernatural ticking sounds that were unlike anything Earl had ever heard. He coughed just to break the din.
There was a soft sniffling, crying sound coming from the last door at the end. Sirius Black’s old cell, his predecessor had told him. Do what you want with the other prisoners but don’t lay a hand on that boy, you hear? Earl had nodded, confused about what was so special about the prisoner in cell 118. His question had been answered two days later when none other than Harry Potter walked onto his wing.
His flash of white hair had startled Earl into stepping back out of his way. He watched his back retreating, and wondered how often Potter came here, wondered why Azkaban didn’t seem to affect him like it did other visitors.
Earl remembered when he first came to work at Azkaban. It was like there were traces of Dementors in the walls. You couldn’t see them but you could feel their nightmarish tentacles reaching into your brain, sorting through and throwing away every good memory, leaving you only with those memories you would rather forget. That first day he had collapsed, overcome with the memory of his wife, his dear Evvie, lying on the white sheets of their bedroom, surrounded by blood.
“You can’t come in here!” The healer said, pushing him out of the room, but not before he got a glimpse of the dark red on the sheets. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth dropping open before he could think.
“I’m sorry, the baby’s gone,” the healer said, her hand still resting on his chest.
“Gone,” he echoed.
Gone.
He didn’t realise he had collapsed until he woke up abruptly, shaking and covered in cold sweat. Though Evelyn had miscarried almost twenty years ago, it had felt like minutes. The emptiness in his chest ached in a way it hadn’t for some time. The whispering grew louder around him, the clicking sounds grew more anxious, more excited.
These days the clicking was softer and the tendrils less insistent as they felt out his memories. He would get a chill down his spine sometimes and a flash of a memory – always dark red – before he dug into his pocket for the chocolate cookies Evvie always packed with him in a little clear bag. As he bit into the soft dough, he thought of Evvie, of her smile as she handed over his lunch before kissing his cheek, and the unease subsided. He was lucky, he thought, to have such a woman; a woman who didn’t mind that he had put on a few pounds as a consequence of her baking, a woman that didn’t mind that he worked nights if it helped keep the nightmares at bay while he slept in the afternoon.
She was the reason he kept working here, if he were honest. Not too many places would hire a bloke over fifty-five, let alone pay him what the ministry did to walk down these corridors every night.
Truth be told, he didn’t do much more than that. He didn’t feel the need to personally punish the prisoners like some of the guards did, or so he heard. Whatever we do to them can’t be worse than the Dementors, one guard had told him one night as they traded off shifts. He stretched out his hand as he said this, the bones cracking, before shaking it to relieve the tension. Earl merely nodded silently. He kept out of people’s way for the most part. Working the evening shift meant never opening the slots in the prisoners’ cells to give them a meal. He tried to avoid looking at the prisoners if he could help it. The last thing he needed were faces to put on the voices in his nightmares. The only faces he ever saw in Azkaban were those of the other guards and of Harry Potter, who visited more and more frequently.
Harry Potter was here again tonight. Earl stepped by and let him pass, his eyes flickering over the determined expression on Harry’s face. He quite suddenly and irrationally feared for Prisoner 118, as Earl called him in his mind. Not entirely irrational, a little voice in his head supplied. He knew Potter had killed. He knew what Potter was capable of. He wondered if Prisoner 118 did. Potter started whistling off-key and a shiver ran down Earl’s spine. It was none of his business what Harry Potter got up to, he knew this, but his gut still clenched when Potter stopped in front of cell 118 and looked in.
He felt strangely protective of Prisoner 118, though he knew he had no right to be. He knew that the strange blond prisoner in that cell deserved to be there. They all did. Still, when Earl had first gone down to cell 118 to tell the prisoner to be quiet – he was whimpering, always crying, that one – he couldn’t help but glance inside. What he saw brought him up short and made his irritation melt away. The prisoner who was huddled up against the wall was little more than a boy: around twenty, around the age his son would have been, had he lived. His white-blonde hair was three shades lighter than Evvie’s had been when they were first married, but it still brought her to mind.
“Hush,” he had said instead of the intended rebuke. He didn’t wait to see if the prisoner had heard him. He turned from the cell, his heart beating double-time. He had never looked in that cell again, but he still felt an almost paternal need to protect Prisoner 118. This paternal drive rose now when he saw Harry Potter go into the cell and close the door behind him with a hollow metallic thud.
He crept towards the door, trying to keep his footsteps light. He could hear voices, though he wasn’t close enough to make out what they were saying.
Prisoner 118 said something softly, his voice feeble and afraid, before the cell lit up with white light. White, he thought with relief, not green. Earl walked faster anyway and reached the cell.
"Green. Your eyes are green." He could hear more clearly now as he peered into
the cell. Through the bright light he could see the prisoner on the floor, naked, with Harry Potter standing over him. Earl’s stomach turned. He had a bad feeling about this.
"Here, let me help you,” Potter said and tore off a piece of his robes. Earl watched in confusion as he pressed the cloth to the prisoner’s lower lip. Was the nakedness the prisoner’s doing? Earl wondered. He noticed a flower left forgotten on the floor and his confusion increased. What was going on?
“Harry,” the prisoner whispered, and Earl had to strain to hear. "I'm cold. I'm always so cold here, and I–" He stopped and looked up at Potter. Earl felt something break inside him in spite of himself. He knew this boy deserved to be in there. Deep down, he knew he had done wrong but at that moment he was just a scared boy and Earl wanted to comfort him, as he might of his own son.
The prisoner begged then, asking Potter not to leave him.
"I won't leave you," Potter said with that same determination that had been written on his face when he came into Azkaban minutes before. Earl could not see his face, Potter’s back was to him, but he imagined that same expression was on his face now.
The prisoner moved so he was in front of Potter, hidden from Earl’s viewpoint. When he spoke it was so softly that Earl only heard bits and pieces.
“Fuck me… hands and knees…”
Earl drew away from the window subconsciously before he had realised it.
“Just on your knees,” he heard Potter say before he backed away, down the hallway, away from the brightly lit cell. He didn’t hear much after that, and truth be told, he didn’t want to. He tried not to think about what the two men were doing in that cell. He tried not to wonder if either of them really wanted it or if they just wanted to feel something, like he did some nights after working a long shift.
He walked back to his post and pulled out the word puzzle out of his trouser pocket along with a small quill. He concentrated on finding the words amongst the shifting letters. He tried not to hear the faint moans from the cell at the end of the corridor. He tried not to notice when the light dimmed as he was circling “M-A-N-D-R-A-K-E.”
He couldn’t help but look up when the door closed though, no more than he could help his look of surprise when he saw Potter’s arm close around the arm of the prisoner and walk him up towards Earl. The clicking noises and the whispering grew louder as the pair walked towards him. Earl tucked the puzzle and quill back into his trouser pocket, his hands shaking slightly.
“Sir?” he asked quietly.
“Draco Malfoy is coming with me,” Harry Potter said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He barely even spared a glance for Earl as he walked past, the prisoner beside him.
“Yes sir,” Earl said as he quietly let them pass. Only when the metal door had opened and closed once more did the clicking and rustling die down to its normal levels. Earl stared down the corridor at the empty cell, its door wide open.
He wasn’t worried about what his superiors would say. All he had to do was mention the name Harry Potter and they would stop asking questions. They knew as well as he did what had happened to Delores Umbridge, what Harry Potter was capable of. He pulled out a double chocolate chip cookie as the clicking grew louder, more excited. He wondered in spite of himself if Potter would look after the prisoner, or if he had just traded one prison for another. Whatever we do to them can’t be worse than the Dementors, floated through his mind and he felt some small measure of comfort in that.
After he had finished his cookie, the crumbs on his uniform and the floor, he pulled out the puzzle again and his quill. The letters shifted and switched positions. Something was different here, Earl thought, before he realised what it was. The crying had stopped.
Author:
kyasuriinSummary: On August 22nd Earl has been a guard at Azkaban for two years. He's not used to visitors, especially ones named Harry Potter
Rating: R
Fandom: Harry Potter
Warnings: References to violence
Spoilers: None
Original story: Never Alone in the Dark by
greenspineNotes: Many thanks to my amazing goddess of a beta.
On August 22nd, Earl had been a guard at Azkaban for a year. Not that he was celebrating – of course not – but it was somewhat of an accomplishment. He had lasted longer than any of the other guards. He thought about this as he walked down the dimly lit corridor, barred doors on his right and left. A light near the end of the hallway flickered but Earl paid it no mind, like many of the things in Azkaban. The dampness of Azkaban used to sink into his bones, used to make his skin crawl, so much that he ran a hot bath as soon as he came home just to wash the slime and dirt from his skin. Soon he stopped bathing after his shift once he realised no matter how hard he scrubbed it was never going to come off.
His steps were steady as he turned and walked back the way he had come. The echo of his footsteps on the concrete was loud enough to make his presence known but not loud enough to drown out the whispering, the crying, the strange supernatural ticking sounds that were unlike anything Earl had ever heard. He coughed just to break the din.
There was a soft sniffling, crying sound coming from the last door at the end. Sirius Black’s old cell, his predecessor had told him. Do what you want with the other prisoners but don’t lay a hand on that boy, you hear? Earl had nodded, confused about what was so special about the prisoner in cell 118. His question had been answered two days later when none other than Harry Potter walked onto his wing.
His flash of white hair had startled Earl into stepping back out of his way. He watched his back retreating, and wondered how often Potter came here, wondered why Azkaban didn’t seem to affect him like it did other visitors.
Earl remembered when he first came to work at Azkaban. It was like there were traces of Dementors in the walls. You couldn’t see them but you could feel their nightmarish tentacles reaching into your brain, sorting through and throwing away every good memory, leaving you only with those memories you would rather forget. That first day he had collapsed, overcome with the memory of his wife, his dear Evvie, lying on the white sheets of their bedroom, surrounded by blood.
“You can’t come in here!” The healer said, pushing him out of the room, but not before he got a glimpse of the dark red on the sheets. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth dropping open before he could think.
“I’m sorry, the baby’s gone,” the healer said, her hand still resting on his chest.
“Gone,” he echoed.
Gone.
He didn’t realise he had collapsed until he woke up abruptly, shaking and covered in cold sweat. Though Evelyn had miscarried almost twenty years ago, it had felt like minutes. The emptiness in his chest ached in a way it hadn’t for some time. The whispering grew louder around him, the clicking sounds grew more anxious, more excited.
These days the clicking was softer and the tendrils less insistent as they felt out his memories. He would get a chill down his spine sometimes and a flash of a memory – always dark red – before he dug into his pocket for the chocolate cookies Evvie always packed with him in a little clear bag. As he bit into the soft dough, he thought of Evvie, of her smile as she handed over his lunch before kissing his cheek, and the unease subsided. He was lucky, he thought, to have such a woman; a woman who didn’t mind that he had put on a few pounds as a consequence of her baking, a woman that didn’t mind that he worked nights if it helped keep the nightmares at bay while he slept in the afternoon.
She was the reason he kept working here, if he were honest. Not too many places would hire a bloke over fifty-five, let alone pay him what the ministry did to walk down these corridors every night.
Truth be told, he didn’t do much more than that. He didn’t feel the need to personally punish the prisoners like some of the guards did, or so he heard. Whatever we do to them can’t be worse than the Dementors, one guard had told him one night as they traded off shifts. He stretched out his hand as he said this, the bones cracking, before shaking it to relieve the tension. Earl merely nodded silently. He kept out of people’s way for the most part. Working the evening shift meant never opening the slots in the prisoners’ cells to give them a meal. He tried to avoid looking at the prisoners if he could help it. The last thing he needed were faces to put on the voices in his nightmares. The only faces he ever saw in Azkaban were those of the other guards and of Harry Potter, who visited more and more frequently.
Harry Potter was here again tonight. Earl stepped by and let him pass, his eyes flickering over the determined expression on Harry’s face. He quite suddenly and irrationally feared for Prisoner 118, as Earl called him in his mind. Not entirely irrational, a little voice in his head supplied. He knew Potter had killed. He knew what Potter was capable of. He wondered if Prisoner 118 did. Potter started whistling off-key and a shiver ran down Earl’s spine. It was none of his business what Harry Potter got up to, he knew this, but his gut still clenched when Potter stopped in front of cell 118 and looked in.
He felt strangely protective of Prisoner 118, though he knew he had no right to be. He knew that the strange blond prisoner in that cell deserved to be there. They all did. Still, when Earl had first gone down to cell 118 to tell the prisoner to be quiet – he was whimpering, always crying, that one – he couldn’t help but glance inside. What he saw brought him up short and made his irritation melt away. The prisoner who was huddled up against the wall was little more than a boy: around twenty, around the age his son would have been, had he lived. His white-blonde hair was three shades lighter than Evvie’s had been when they were first married, but it still brought her to mind.
“Hush,” he had said instead of the intended rebuke. He didn’t wait to see if the prisoner had heard him. He turned from the cell, his heart beating double-time. He had never looked in that cell again, but he still felt an almost paternal need to protect Prisoner 118. This paternal drive rose now when he saw Harry Potter go into the cell and close the door behind him with a hollow metallic thud.
He crept towards the door, trying to keep his footsteps light. He could hear voices, though he wasn’t close enough to make out what they were saying.
Prisoner 118 said something softly, his voice feeble and afraid, before the cell lit up with white light. White, he thought with relief, not green. Earl walked faster anyway and reached the cell.
"Green. Your eyes are green." He could hear more clearly now as he peered into
the cell. Through the bright light he could see the prisoner on the floor, naked, with Harry Potter standing over him. Earl’s stomach turned. He had a bad feeling about this.
"Here, let me help you,” Potter said and tore off a piece of his robes. Earl watched in confusion as he pressed the cloth to the prisoner’s lower lip. Was the nakedness the prisoner’s doing? Earl wondered. He noticed a flower left forgotten on the floor and his confusion increased. What was going on?
“Harry,” the prisoner whispered, and Earl had to strain to hear. "I'm cold. I'm always so cold here, and I–" He stopped and looked up at Potter. Earl felt something break inside him in spite of himself. He knew this boy deserved to be in there. Deep down, he knew he had done wrong but at that moment he was just a scared boy and Earl wanted to comfort him, as he might of his own son.
The prisoner begged then, asking Potter not to leave him.
"I won't leave you," Potter said with that same determination that had been written on his face when he came into Azkaban minutes before. Earl could not see his face, Potter’s back was to him, but he imagined that same expression was on his face now.
The prisoner moved so he was in front of Potter, hidden from Earl’s viewpoint. When he spoke it was so softly that Earl only heard bits and pieces.
“Fuck me… hands and knees…”
Earl drew away from the window subconsciously before he had realised it.
“Just on your knees,” he heard Potter say before he backed away, down the hallway, away from the brightly lit cell. He didn’t hear much after that, and truth be told, he didn’t want to. He tried not to think about what the two men were doing in that cell. He tried not to wonder if either of them really wanted it or if they just wanted to feel something, like he did some nights after working a long shift.
He walked back to his post and pulled out the word puzzle out of his trouser pocket along with a small quill. He concentrated on finding the words amongst the shifting letters. He tried not to hear the faint moans from the cell at the end of the corridor. He tried not to notice when the light dimmed as he was circling “M-A-N-D-R-A-K-E.”
He couldn’t help but look up when the door closed though, no more than he could help his look of surprise when he saw Potter’s arm close around the arm of the prisoner and walk him up towards Earl. The clicking noises and the whispering grew louder as the pair walked towards him. Earl tucked the puzzle and quill back into his trouser pocket, his hands shaking slightly.
“Sir?” he asked quietly.
“Draco Malfoy is coming with me,” Harry Potter said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He barely even spared a glance for Earl as he walked past, the prisoner beside him.
“Yes sir,” Earl said as he quietly let them pass. Only when the metal door had opened and closed once more did the clicking and rustling die down to its normal levels. Earl stared down the corridor at the empty cell, its door wide open.
He wasn’t worried about what his superiors would say. All he had to do was mention the name Harry Potter and they would stop asking questions. They knew as well as he did what had happened to Delores Umbridge, what Harry Potter was capable of. He pulled out a double chocolate chip cookie as the clicking grew louder, more excited. He wondered in spite of himself if Potter would look after the prisoner, or if he had just traded one prison for another. Whatever we do to them can’t be worse than the Dementors, floated through his mind and he felt some small measure of comfort in that.
After he had finished his cookie, the crumbs on his uniform and the floor, he pulled out the puzzle again and his quill. The letters shifted and switched positions. Something was different here, Earl thought, before he realised what it was. The crying had stopped.
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