Prologue - After the Fall
The funny thing about the Pili Puniceus hex was that it was permanent, Albus Dumbledore reflected as he eyed the emaciated figure in the cell. Ulysses Grayson had been in that cell for close to four months, but the two extra inches of hair he had grown in that time, as well as the ragged beard sprouting from his chin, were the same absurd shade of fuschia that the rest of it was. The hex in question was simple and relatively harmless, popular as a practical joke among the younger students. It seemed obscenely out of place in Azkaban, where nothing was funny. The dementors saw to that. It was an island of misery, a fortress of sorrow, a square mile of absolute despair, and as close as you could get to hell without dying.
Seeing him approach, the prisoner rose to his feet and advanced across his tiny quarters, moving with his wonted dangerous grace despite his wretched condition. “Professor Dumbledore. Sir.”
“Hello, Mr. Grayson. I wish to speak with you,” Dumbledore said politely.
The disgraced Auror eyed his former mentor warily. “Concerning what?”
“That should be obvious, but it’s hard to think coherently in a place like this.” Dumbledore withdrew his wand from his inside pocket, and made a complex motion with it. “Sphera Impervia!”
A translucent sphere not unlike a soap bubble appeared around them, expanding further and further, driving the dementors back. As it engulfed the two men, the dark mood generated by the dementors immediately dissipated like a bad dream. Several of the foul black creatures clustered angrily at the fifteen-foot bubble’s edge, but they could neither penetrate it nor project their powers through it.
“Better?” Dumbledore queried, stowing his wand.
“Much,” Grayson replied. “So, don’t tell me, let me guess. Voldemort has returned, and you need me to go kick his skinny white bum. Right?” Unlike many, Grayson had never been afraid to speak the so-called dark lord’s name, and even make fun of it.
Despite the serious nature of his errand, Dumbledore allowed himself a smile at the younger man’s brash humor. “Sorry, but incorrect. He’s still gone.”
“Ah.” Grayson wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed at that. “What do you want to discuss, then?”
The Hogwarts headmaster was incisive. He was 140 years old, and had no time for mincing words. “I want to know,” he said, “what prompted my most promising junior Auror ever to get himself jailed for using an Unforgivable curse.”
“Oh, that,” Grayson said, though he had known darn well that was why Dumbledore was there.
“Yes, that,” Dumbledore said succinctly. Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed a spot of bantering, but there was a time when one needed to be serious. He reminded himself that Grayson, being only twenty-three, might not have figured that out yet.
“What do I get if I do?” Grayson queried.
“I may pull some strings,” Dumbledore said. “And see if we can get you out of here a bit sooner. I’m assuming you like that idea.”
“And leave all this?” Grayson indicated his cell, a 6 x 10 box, furnished only with a pile of rotten straw and a dented metal chamber pot.
Again, Dumbledore smiled in spite of himself. “It does have a primitive charm, but the company is hardly ideal.” He indicated the dementors.
“There is that,” Grayson admitted. “Well, pull up a chair then. Or conjure one up, whatever suits you.” That last was said when Dumbledore used his wand to do the latter. “I don’t suppose you brought any butterbeer.”
“No, but I do have sherbet lemons,” Dumbledore replied, producing a tin from his robes. “Would you care for one?”
“Delighted.” Grayson took three or four of them and popped one into his mouth. Azkaban food was so vile that even after four months of it, he couldn’t stomach it unless he held his nose while eating. The tangy-sweet candy was pure bliss. He pocketed the rest, all too aware that they could easily be the last candy he would ever enjoy. “Very well, Professor,” he said. “This is what happened.”