Dolores did not hear the whisper. He moved with a frantic pace, eager to abandon the gray fortress and the suffocating pressure of its atmosphere.
As the Thestral-drawn carriage vanished into the mist, the Dementors became restless.
They had long ago picked clean the joy and happiness of the older residents, leaving behind nothing but the stagnant, rotting flavor of ancient despair. But Elijah was a fresh dessert.
To these foul creatures, a soul that had never encountered their touch was a delicacy more appealing than any memory. Hundreds of them surged into the tower, their ragged black robes billowing as they jostled for position.
Their arrival was heralded by a cold that transcended the physical. In the upper tiers, the prisoners began to convulse, their eyes bulging as the Dementors' proximity siphoned away every scrap of warmth. Shadows swept through the passages, converging on the deepest wing of the prison.
The Death Eaters, usually raving or whimpering, fell into a terrified silence. They curled into corners, mouths agape, waiting for the inevitable void.
Only Sirius Black remained alert.
For eleven years, his only joy had been the sound of Death Eaters wailing under the Dementors' touch.
He knew he could avoid the worst of it by shifting into his Animagus form—Dementors were blind to the simpler, blunted emotions of a dog—but Sirius rarely chose the easy path. Most of the time, he remained human, enduring the chill as a form of self-inflicted penance.
He watched the swarm pass his bars, a literal tide of black silk and frost heading for the newcomer's cell. He waited for the scream. He waited for the sound of a body hitting the floor in a dead faint.
The silence persisted.
Suddenly, the frantic energy of the swarm shifted. The Dementors at the rear were still pushing forward, but those at the front were recoiling in terror. The corridor became a chaotic jam of rotting robes and rattling breaths.
Sirius had never seen the Dementors afraid; they were fleeing as if they had encountered a Basilisk in a narrow pipe.
He pressed his gaunt face against the iron bars. The cold bit into his skin, nearly freezing his hands to the metal, but he ignored the pain. From the corner of his eye, a soft, silver radiance began to bleed into the darkness.
It was an amorphous glow, shimmering like moonlight filtered through a deep forest mist.
As the light touched him, a surge of pure, forgotten joy erupted in Sirius's chest.
He remembered autumn mornings at Hogwarts, the mist rising off the Black Lake, and the sound of James's laughter as they skated across the winter ice.
He remembered the freedom of four friends roaming the castle under a bright moon.
Tears welled in his eyes. For a moment, the betrayal and the hatred were gone, replaced by a warmth he hadn't felt in a decade.
"A Patronus..." he whispered.
"Yes," a calm voice replied. "A Patronus."
Elijah stood before Sirius's cell. Despite the prison stripes, he stood with a terrifying poise, looking less like a captive and more like a king surveying a ruined kingdom.
"Sirius Black," Elijah said softly. "The most loyal servant of the Dark Lord, who betrayed James Potter and murdered Peter Pettigrew along with thirteen Muggles, ain't that right?"
Sirius lifted his head, his gaze sharpening. He did not trust the light. "Who are you?"
"They call me Tom Riddle. I prefer Elijah."
Sirius let out a dry, hacking laugh and slumped back to the floor. "Every wizard in Britain knows me, then. The Dark Lord's most insane minion."
"I know you aren't." Elijah lowered his voice, the silver light of his Patronus casting long shadows behind him. "You never betrayed them, did you? Heh~ Peter Pettigrew was the traitor. You accepted this hell because you thought you deserved it for failing them."
The spark in Sirius's eyes turned into a flame. "Who told you that? Who are you?"
"The details don't matter. I have a secret for you, Sirius, and a task. It's simple, and no one will be harmed."
"I don't care about your secrets," Sirius snarled, dragging his chains back into the shadows of his cell. "Leave me be."
"Are you content to rot here?" Elijah asked. "While the child you were supposed to protect sleeps in a cupboard at his aunt's house? Harry is in danger. You-Know-Who has set his sights on him."
"He was defeated!" Sirius rushed back to the bars, gripping them until his knuckles turned white.
"Defeated, but not dead. He tried to return two years ago. Harry stopped him, but he won't be able to stop him forever. Not while the real traitor is still out there. You can protect him from Peter Pettigrew."
"He's dead!" Sirius howled. "I cornered him! He blew himself to bits—there was nothing left but a finger!"
"Oh? Did you see a body, Sirius? Or did you see a coward who knew he couldn't outrun you?" Elijah's tone was clinical. "Think. Would Peter Pettigrew sacrifice his life? Or would he transform and disappear into the shadows, waiting for a chance to crawl back to his master?"
Sirius froze. The logic pierced through eleven years of trauma. He had no proof of Peter's death—only the evidence Peter had manufactured.
"You.. You know where he is," Sirius whispered, his voice trembling with a lethal intent. "Tell me! TELL ME!!"
His roar echoed through the high tower, stirring the other Death Eaters from their stupor. In the nearby cells, Bellatrix Lestrange began to scream, slamming her head against the bars, her eyes wild with a desire to avenge her fallen master.
Elijah ignored her. Bellatrix was a tool he didn't need yet.
"I can tell you," Elijah said, sliding his hand through the bars toward Sirius. "But you must make the Unbreakable Vow."
"I have no wand, and neither do you. We have no witness."
"I need no wand. And I will be the witness to my own magic." Elijah extended a finger. "Sirius Black, will you retrieve certain items for me from Lucius Malfoy once you are free? I vow that no subjective intent of mine will cause harm to anyone through this task."
A thin, dazzling wire of red-hot magic erupted from Elijah's fingertip, lashing their hands together.
"I agree," Sirius rasped.
The second mark branded their skin.
"Now," Sirius pressed. "Is the information about Peter true?"
"It is. And you must vow not to speak of me or inquire about my identity until your task is complete."
"I vow it."
...
Days later, Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, staring at a letter from Cornelius Fudge.
The Minister was in a state of high anxiety.
The Dementors had reported a prisoner casting a Patronus without a wand—a feat that had sent the guards into a panicked strike.
Dumbledore was troubled.
A Patronus required a core of happiness that Voldemort had never possessed. If this "Tom" could produce such a light, the possibility that he was truly someone else—this "Elijah"—began to take root in Dumbledore's mind.
He traveled to Azkaban via the Ministry's Floo, accompanied by a nervous Fudge.
Dumbledore moved through the prison, weaving powerful protective wards around Elijah's cell. These were not mere bars; they were sensors. If Elijah so much as attempted to warp the space of his cage, Dumbledore would know instantly.
"I hope you learn to repent here," Dumbledore said softly to the boy behind the bars. "Watching your 'friends' suffer should be a sobering education."
"Aha~ That doesn't sound very saintly, Albus," Elijah mocked.
"I never claimed to be a saint."
As Dumbledore left, he passed the cell of Sirius Black. The man was quiet, watching him with a gaze that held a strange, new clarity. Dumbledore felt a flicker of surprise but did not stop.
Hours later, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy arrived.
Fudge, now confident in the new wards, allowed them a brief visit under his supervision. He sat nearby, hidden behind a copy of the Daily Prophet.
Narcissa stood before Sirius's cell, her face a mask of aristocratic agony. "Sirius, give us the Gringotts key. The House of Black needs a legal heir, and Draco—"
"Give my gold to a Malfoy?" Sirius grinned, looking remarkably sane. "I'd rather burn it. Is Lucius running low on bribes?"
Time to time, Narcissa glanced toward the deeper cells, her eyes searching for a sign of the Dark Lord, her heart racing with fear for her son.
"Listen, Sirius, Draco is.."
But Sirius was no longer listening to her. He was watching Fudge.
"Are you done with that paper, Minister?" Sirius asked loudly. "I'd like the crossword. It's terribly dull in here."
Fudge, wanting to be done with the cold, tossed the crumpled newspaper through the bars. Sirius caught it, his eyes immediately darting to a photograph on the front page: the Weasley family in Egypt.
On the shoulder of the youngest boy sat a rat. A rat missing a toe on one front paw.
Elijah, watching from the darkness of his own cell, saw the realization strike Sirius like a bolt of lightning.