Here I am, not quite dying, my body left to rot in a hollow tree [Dermod]

A heavy thump came to the old wooden door, followed by the metallic scratch of an large iron key in the lock. It clicked to life, before the door was swung loudly open on the huge old hinges that held it in place. Through the doorway stepped an inexperienced Auror with the gormless look of youth upon his stretched pale face. He stood awkwardly for a moment in the silence, eyes surveying the spartan interior of Gaius’ cell. The young man had seen it several times before; he had even shared a strong drink with the man himself (and, to his eternal shame he had returned to duty slightly inebriated, but Mr. Purcell had been ever so accommodating and polite and more than happily had shared his contraband, what a gentleman). He awkwardly cleared his throat, “Mr Purcell?”

Not raising his head from his desk where he was scribbling upon a long unrolled piece of parchment, the older wizard replied nonchalantly; “Yes, Auror Warren?” Gaius recognised the soft West Country accent as belonging to the young guard.

“There is a visitor for you.”

Gaius stopped his writing, slowly placing the quill upon the surface of his makeshift desk. Visitors never came to him. He arranged his own visits; aligning them carefully with the more malleable guards so that the vast majority could occur within the confines of his own quarters. His suspicions were immediately raised.

“And, who is it, Auror Warren?”

The younger wizard shifted somewhat awkwardly, his cheap boots audible upon the rough stone floor around the door as he shuffled his stance.

“I’m, well I’m not sure, Mr Purcell. He said he is your cousin.” With this, Auror Warren shook a small leather pouch which chinked with it’s contents. Gaius turned slowly, his hazel eyes falling upon the bribe in the Auror’s grip. Gaius nodded slowly, attempting to appear stoic whilst his mind raced.

He had always known that this day would come. Either the Ministry would do it, or one of the countless aggrieved would;  perhaps the Ministry would even assist. Still, it seemed to him somewhat amateur - carelessly bribe one of the junior Aurors and bring the damned out for a supposed visit, before striking? Standards were slipping.

“Ah, my cousin Alphonsus, of course. It has been a long time.” He spoke with a forced and unnatural enthusiasm. “I will be right with you.” The wizard made a play of tidying his desk whilst the younger man stepped out of the cell. As Gaius got to his feet, he clandestinely slipped his straight razor into the right sleeve of his prison robes. He would be sure to gut the bastard as soon as he met him.

- - - - -

The two men descended through the corridors of the ancient prison. The whispered conversations of the inmates; their coughs; their cackled hopeless laughter; all echoed through those dank, moist stony corridors. The soundtrack of the damned; the harmonies of the condemned. Music to the Ministry's ears, no doubt. Even Gaius enjoyed hearing it. Those who whined were weak; they deserved their incarceration. Their paeans were a melodious background to his day to day activities. They reminded him that the majority were feeble.

The Auror and the Prisoner stepped out into the visiting room; a large high-ceilinged space on the ground floor of the prison where once every two weeks dozens of prisoners were dragged to meet their reluctant guests; worn desks roughly bolted to the floor; harsh seating lined up against them in rows. Upon the far wall were small slits in the stonework representing windows; beyond which were the jagged rocks and the cold rolling waves of the North Sea. An aged candelabra hung from the vaulted ceiling; half of the candles upon it were lit; casting one side of the bleak room in shadow, one side in a dull sickly light. The room was empty, except for a shadowy figure seated at the table in the very centre. A strange position for an ambush.

As Gaius reached the last step of the stone staircase, he straightened his right arm, ready for the blade to fall into his cupped palm. He wondered if there was a need to kill Warren also; the only good Auror was a dead one, or so went the old Death Eater mantra; but Gaius needed them on his side within this particular cheery establishment. Maybe best to spare him; just give him a good scare. But as Auror Warren led the Death Eater to the table, Gaius, to his growing surprise, began to recognise the particular disposition of the shadowy figure seated there. From the very depths of his subconscious; from the shadows and gloom where he had filed away the events of the past thirty years; this particular shape, this posture - it was known.

Gaius could not quite believe who was sitting there awaiting him.

It was possibly the most terrifying place he had ever been.

Azkaban prison, even as a visitor, was nowhere a Death Eater wanted to be. Even when hardly anyone had ever known his true name so the chances of him being sold out in exchange for a shorter sentence were infinitessimal. The sheer feeling of the place was enough to make him shudder, albeit imperceptibly. Even with the Dementors gone it had a sickly, cold feeling, as if it wanted to suck in all comers and keep them enclosed until all that remained were dessicated husks. Like a giant, predatory spider, he thought. Like an acromantula captured, tortured into insanity until all that remained was the insatiable thirst for revenge.

And anyone walking into its trap was surely insane as well. Walk right in, sang the spider to the fly, a piece of verse encountered decades earlier. Maybe even have been in a muggle poetry book, though Merlin only knew why he would have been reading such a thing. Yet here he was, waiting at a sparse, nay, empty table in a poorly-lit, empty room that offered no comfort to either visitor or visited; a meeting of the damned. As it should be, he supposed. Previously only crimes allegedly as horrific as using unforgiveable curses or murder of innocents led to a sentence here; now it was simply one's beliefs. Reason enough to shudder when there were dozens, perhaps hundreds of reasons why Dermod might be seated the other side of the table in another life, had he not been spirited away that fateful night when Voldemort fell.

He studied his hands, spread out on the empty wood. Gloved out of modesty and protection both; the writer refused to let anyone see his mangled right hand, the inexpertly repaired flesh where fingers had once been. Protection too; just in case anyone happened to remember seeing the flash of a blade, a spreadeagled victim… No, there had been no witnesses, and yet one could never be too careful.

Footsteps. The purpose of his visit, and he raised his head slightly, just enough for the prisoner to gain a view of his face. How many years had it been? What if he didn't remember? Yet Dermod was confident, not just that he would be recognised, but that he would not be unmasked so to speak, despite his face being bare. Without his wand - surrendered at the entrance gate, and not his wand of course, but a second hand one purchased some weeks previously, just long enough to perform a few menial spells to give truth to the claim that it was indeed his own - the Irishman felt vulnerable, even with the potion concealed within a secret pocket of his finely-tailored winter coat. This far north the wind was biting, the chill permeating even the thick walls of the prison.

The footsteps stopped; Dermod having been careful not to show any sign of a reaction as the two men, prisoner and captor, approached. Only once they were within a few feet of the table did he speak. "Good afternoon, cousin" he said, his Co. Cork accent noticeable and perhaps a little more recognisable than he might have liked "it has been far. far too long…"

[OOC: As has this post. Dermod has been quiet for too long as well; but it deserved a reply, even if I don't really think it's done Gaius the justice he deserves]