Augustus Rookwood, Pensieve Memory, June 1996
Name: Augustus Rookwood
Date: June 23rd, 1996
Format: Pensieve Memory
Relevance: One of Rookwood's worst memories. Rookwood spent fourteen years in Azkaban between 1982 and 1996. After his escape he spent just five months outside Azkaban before being recaptured and sent back.
Nearby, a voice says, "back again, eh, Rookwood?"
In the small room, the sound of the sea is deafening. The walls are bare rock, but there’s a muggle clock screwed into one of them that ticks with a grating, metallic noise, as if its inner workings are already corroding in the salt air. Behind a small table a man in a fraying uniform is tapping his pen against his chin, training his bored gaze on his colleague, who’s going through Rookwood’s pockets.
Rookwood isn’t a tall man, but the way he’s standing suggests it. He’s in his late thirties, but his hair is already greying, and he has the hard, lean look of a man who's been thin for a very long time. It makes his features look more severe than they might otherwise, especially in the cold white light of the room, and with his face so completely devoid of emotion. There's a dark bruise around his right temple and eye socket, already purpling and a day or two old, but other than this he's uninjured.
The guard behind him speaks again while flicking disinterestedly through the contents of Rookwood’s pockets: a quill, a folded piece of parchment covered in symbols he doesn’t understand, a small, well-thumbed notebook. "They remember, you know, Rookwood. The dementors. Think they’ll be glad to see you again?" All of these go through a metal hatch in the corner of the room, and for a moment a hot blast of air stirs the papers on the little table.
Rookwood looks up at the ceiling, won’t meet their eyes. There’s the beginnings of a sneer on his face, but only that. The air here is sour with the smell of salt spume and bird shit and people taking their time to die. Rookwood remembers that smell. His face has an odd greyish cast to it; he can’t seem to stop blinking, though his eyes are dry. The guard says, "I reckon they will. Sick bastard like you. I reckon they’ll be clawing at the fucking door to get at you, just out there." He moves where Rookwood can see him, indicates a chipped metal door opposite, then bangs on it with his fist as if to rouse whatever might be on the other side of it. "Can you feel them, Rookwood?"
The sea slams against the rocks below in a great roar of water, and Rookwood blinks again. The muscles in his jaw work. "Oho," says the guard, moving back over, "he’s acting all tough, but he can feel them. You see that, Frank? He can feel them." Rookwood’s lips curl into a disparaging smirk, and he raises his chin a fraction to look down his nose at the guard, but there's a hint of uncertainty in his face, now. The guard is very close.
"We saved your old cell," he murmurs, giving a wink and moving behind Rookwood to pull his robes from his shoulders. "Just like old times." Rookwood's robe goes through the hatch into the incinerator too, and he’s given another, tattered and grey. He puts it on silently, without a fuss, but on second glance his hands have begun to shake now, and his breathing is growing quick and ragged. The guards share a look, and the loud one chuckles. A wave hits the rocky wall of the island, but beneath that noise there's another, a quiet rumbling like the flapping of damp cloth, from behind the door.
Rookwood looks unsteady on his feet, suddenly, though his face is still blank. He swallows. His fingers move uselessly at his sides. The loud guard opens his mouth to speak again, but finally the man behind the table stands, holds up his hand. "Alright, alright," he says. "We’ve enough to get through."
The other grimaces, still looking at Rookwood. "You know what they found, when they brought him in, Frank? He had a lab. There were children in it- women, blokes, all-" He shudders and breaks off to shake his head, the corners of his lips turned down. Rookwood doesn’t move, doesn’t look at him: he isn't listening, but looking at the door across the room. "Fucking children, Frank. They’d torn each other to pieces."
Frank sniffs grimly. "Off we go," he says, but still Rookwood doesn’t move. A wand tip prods the small of his back, but he only shuts his eyes. Frank snorts and says, "let them in, then."
"Don’t," says Rookwood. But they bring in the dementors anyway.
Date: June 23rd, 1996
Format: Pensieve Memory
Relevance: One of Rookwood's worst memories. Rookwood spent fourteen years in Azkaban between 1982 and 1996. After his escape he spent just five months outside Azkaban before being recaptured and sent back.
Nearby, a voice says, "back again, eh, Rookwood?"
In the small room, the sound of the sea is deafening. The walls are bare rock, but there’s a muggle clock screwed into one of them that ticks with a grating, metallic noise, as if its inner workings are already corroding in the salt air. Behind a small table a man in a fraying uniform is tapping his pen against his chin, training his bored gaze on his colleague, who’s going through Rookwood’s pockets.
Rookwood isn’t a tall man, but the way he’s standing suggests it. He’s in his late thirties, but his hair is already greying, and he has the hard, lean look of a man who's been thin for a very long time. It makes his features look more severe than they might otherwise, especially in the cold white light of the room, and with his face so completely devoid of emotion. There's a dark bruise around his right temple and eye socket, already purpling and a day or two old, but other than this he's uninjured.
The guard behind him speaks again while flicking disinterestedly through the contents of Rookwood’s pockets: a quill, a folded piece of parchment covered in symbols he doesn’t understand, a small, well-thumbed notebook. "They remember, you know, Rookwood. The dementors. Think they’ll be glad to see you again?" All of these go through a metal hatch in the corner of the room, and for a moment a hot blast of air stirs the papers on the little table.
Rookwood looks up at the ceiling, won’t meet their eyes. There’s the beginnings of a sneer on his face, but only that. The air here is sour with the smell of salt spume and bird shit and people taking their time to die. Rookwood remembers that smell. His face has an odd greyish cast to it; he can’t seem to stop blinking, though his eyes are dry. The guard says, "I reckon they will. Sick bastard like you. I reckon they’ll be clawing at the fucking door to get at you, just out there." He moves where Rookwood can see him, indicates a chipped metal door opposite, then bangs on it with his fist as if to rouse whatever might be on the other side of it. "Can you feel them, Rookwood?"
The sea slams against the rocks below in a great roar of water, and Rookwood blinks again. The muscles in his jaw work. "Oho," says the guard, moving back over, "he’s acting all tough, but he can feel them. You see that, Frank? He can feel them." Rookwood’s lips curl into a disparaging smirk, and he raises his chin a fraction to look down his nose at the guard, but there's a hint of uncertainty in his face, now. The guard is very close.
"We saved your old cell," he murmurs, giving a wink and moving behind Rookwood to pull his robes from his shoulders. "Just like old times." Rookwood's robe goes through the hatch into the incinerator too, and he’s given another, tattered and grey. He puts it on silently, without a fuss, but on second glance his hands have begun to shake now, and his breathing is growing quick and ragged. The guards share a look, and the loud one chuckles. A wave hits the rocky wall of the island, but beneath that noise there's another, a quiet rumbling like the flapping of damp cloth, from behind the door.
Rookwood looks unsteady on his feet, suddenly, though his face is still blank. He swallows. His fingers move uselessly at his sides. The loud guard opens his mouth to speak again, but finally the man behind the table stands, holds up his hand. "Alright, alright," he says. "We’ve enough to get through."
The other grimaces, still looking at Rookwood. "You know what they found, when they brought him in, Frank? He had a lab. There were children in it- women, blokes, all-" He shudders and breaks off to shake his head, the corners of his lips turned down. Rookwood doesn’t move, doesn’t look at him: he isn't listening, but looking at the door across the room. "Fucking children, Frank. They’d torn each other to pieces."
Frank sniffs grimly. "Off we go," he says, but still Rookwood doesn’t move. A wand tip prods the small of his back, but he only shuts his eyes. Frank snorts and says, "let them in, then."
"Don’t," says Rookwood. But they bring in the dementors anyway.