A new day—new impressions!
Under this motto, Sunday breakfast in the Great Hall began, but it wasn't the students or the Hogwarts staff who were the source of these "new impressions"—it was the Sunday mail. The owls flying into the Hall quickly carried out a mail "bombardment," and only a few lingered to beg for, or at worst, steal a few treats.
The students, including my housemates, enthusiastically opened the fresh Daily Prophet—which isn't actually daily, nor is it a prophet, but that's beside the point. On the front page was a magical photograph of a large triangular fortress in the middle of a raging ocean.
"Holy shit!" Ernie exclaimed, quietly in volume but literally shouting in intonation.
Actually, exclamations of roughly the same sentiment rippled through many of the students who had started reading the paper, even pushing their food aside. This piqued my interest, and I slid closer to Macmillan to get a look at the paper.
"What's in there?"
"Here, read it," Ernie positioned the paper so I could read the article too; it was the only one on the front page.
As I read the headline, I fell into a slight stupor and even connected to my spider in Azkaban—everything there was as quiet as it could possibly be, considering the place itself. However, the front page blared with a striking headline: "Riot in Maximum Security Prison. Mass Breakout from Azkaban." Naturally, besides an aerial photo of the fortress itself, there were magical photographs of the actual escapees. Ten people. All men, and only one woman—Bellatrix Lestrange.
Reconnecting to the spider, I examined Umbridge's cell—sparse, gloomy, "stony," with amenities consisting of some bed made of recycled materials, a washbasin, and a toilet that was basically a hole in the floor. And silence all around. The Dementors were still flying outside—I saw them through the high, small, barred window.
Returning my consciousness to the Great Hall, I continued reading the article, doing so out loud:
"Late last night, the Ministry of Magic reported a mass breakout from Azkaban."
Glancing at the guys around me, I made sure they were listening.
"During an interview with reporters in his office, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge confirmed that ten prisoners escaped from maximum-security cells a few hours ago. 'Naturally, the Muggle Prime Minister has already been informed of the danger,' Minister Fudge told reporters. 'We suspect that this breakout was orchestrated by the man who was the first in history to escape Azkaban, the notorious villain and murderer, Sirius Black.'"
"Wow!" Justin exclaimed, and judging by the expressions on the other guys' faces, they fully shared his emotions. "Looks like Black has decided to make his move."
"I don't think so," I shook my head. "I have indirect information... by the way, didn't I mention this?"
"About what?" Hannah immediately interrupted me, keeping the thread of the conversation going.
"About the fact that Black isn't a Death Eater, and never served the Dark Lord?"
"I don't recall, honestly," Susan looked extremely thoughtful, even biting her lip as she tried to remember.
"Well, anyway, there is information."
"Hard to believe, but your information is usually quite accurate," Justin shrugged, easily taking my word for it. "So, the Ministry has no idea how this happened?"
"Apparently not," Hannah nodded. "Though, the Ministry might control the lives of citizens, laws, and politics, but things like this..."
Hannah nodded at the newspaper in my hands.
"...are usually impossible to predict."
"That's not what matters," I interrupted the budding discussion about the capabilities and "impossibilities" of our dearest bureaucratic apparatus. "There's a continuation here."
"Then read it quickly," Zacharias leaned forward. "It's interesting."
"So interesting you want to hear who escaped from Azkaban?" I smirked, looking first at Zacharias and then at the rest. "They aren't sitting there for their good looks, especially in maximum security."
"Hector," a slight reproach could be heard in Hannah's voice and seen in her eyes. "How about you read all the available information, and then we can all dive into philosophy about the hardships of existence and what to do now. Okay?"
"That was the plan... Anyway..." Unfolding the article again, I continued reading aloud. "'Mr. Minister,' one of the reporters asked, 'is the appearance of You-Know-Who's Dark Mark over the home of the respected businessman, Campbell MacPherson, his mansion going into lockdown mode, and the complete lack of communication with him connected to the escape of dangerous criminals from Azkaban?'"
"'To our great regret,' Minister Fudge spread his hands with sorrow in his eyes, 'the grim statistics of these marks being cast by the henchmen of You-Know-Who—who, by the way, has been dead for a long time—suggest that the universally respected Mr. MacPherson has most likely been murdered. The investigation has yet to provide definitive answers, but we are certain that the connection between these two events is obvious and indisputable. We consider it highly probable that the escaped criminals, including the infamous Black's cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange, are rallying around their leader, Black. Perhaps Black wanted to extort something from Mr. MacPherson, sanctuary for example, and, upon being refused, murdered the unfortunate man and cast the Dark Mark into the sky. Nevertheless, we are making every effort to apprehend the criminals and ask the wizarding community to remain vigilant and cautious. Under no circumstances should these individuals be approached.'"
Glancing at the rest of the content, I turned the page—here and there it was just empty rambling, rehashing the topic of the escape, Black, the Dark Marks, and how terrible it is to frighten honest citizens with these marks when the Dark Lord... well, kicked the bucket a long time ago.
"And what's next?"
"Next, Hannah," I handed the newspaper back to Ernie, "is nothing of real substance. Guys, I have a question. How realistic is it to escape from Azkaban and leave the event unnoticed?"
"Technically..." Susan started answering immediately, pausing to think after her first word, "it's possible. Ten days. That's usually how much time passes between scheduled visits to the prison by DMLE personnel."
"The DMLE? Not the Auror Office?" I was a bit surprised, since dealing with Dementors is not exactly the most pleasant, healthy, or generally easy task.
"Well..." Susan looked a little embarrassed, fiddling with the envelope of a letter she had received. "The Auror Office is considered an international organization. They have a complex and confusing management structure, and in the case of matters on an interstate scale, they have slightly different instructions. And Azkaban is strictly our own, English prison, so there."
"My friend," Hannah smiled at our redhead, "open your letter. Who knows, with all this going on, maybe your aunt wrote something important."
"Yes, indeed," Susan hurried to open the envelope, pull out the letter, and begin a quick read, albeit not aloud—privacy of personal correspondence and all that. "Oh, my..."
"What is it?" Justin asked immediately, but corrected himself: "If it's not a secret, of course."
"No, no, it's not a secret. Auntie writes that about half of the Dementors of Azkaban abandoned their posts following the escapees. She writes that the Ministry, and Fudge in particular, will hush this up."
"What's the point?" I looked at everyone in turn. "To prevent panic?"
"Hmm..." Ernie stopped slouching over the table—which was how he "shortened the distance" of his spoon from plate to mouth while holding the newspaper in one hand—and hummed thoughtfully. "Unlikely. Many who are unfamiliar with certain nuances of Ministry life believe that the Dementors are under the control and subordination of the Ministry."
"Crystal clear, you don't need to continue," I smirked, pushing my spoon around in my bowl of porridge. "They, the Dementors, cooperate with wizards on a voluntary basis, right?"
"Not exactly, but close enough."
"And here I was wondering how the Ministry managed to completely subjugate and control rather intelligent, extremely dangerous, and quite independent creatures. So that's how it is... I suppose Fudge and the Ministry aren't talking about it so that wizards don't completely lose faith in the government and in Fudge."
"That is more than possible," Ernie quickly finished the remains of his porridge, literally in two spoonfuls. "Only one wizard was ever able to lead the Dementors out of Azkaban. He managed to sway them. Whether by words or by force—it doesn't matter, and no one knows anyway. Guess who?"
"No need to guess," Justin nodded. "And this is public information?"
"It's one of the most common tall tales about You-Know-Who," Hannah nodded importantly. "Everyone knows it. They say You-Know-Who was so powerful that he overpowered the Ministry's control over the Dementors. Not all of them, but half. And here it is again. You don't have to be an analytical genius to figure out that Fudge is leading everyone by the nose. And that is extremely disadvantageous for him right now."
"Do you think," I said, having followed Ernie's example and cleared my plate while they were talking, and now pushing it aside, "he still hopes to 'swim' out of this whole situation? If I were him, I wouldn't be doing this; I'd be preparing a fallback plan to step down while I still had some power in my hands."
"I don't know," Hannah shrugged indifferently, surprising everyone a little, since she usually has an opinion on all sorts of events and rumors in the Ministry. "Anything is possible."
After breakfast, I headed to the Restricted Section of the library to continue—for the umpteenth time—educating my beloved self in various complex and potentially dangerous disciplines for the wizard themselves. For instance, it was time for a couple of books on so-called chimerology, although in reality, it has little to do with actual chimeras—it's just a massive collection of practically tested methods for affecting and manipulating organic matter. All strictly following the recommendations of Snape and Dumbledore—once I study the material they suggested, then I'll move on to a "free search." And the club coin had heated up, too—a new meeting time. Sigh... So much to do... And the main thing—it's completely unclear how to react to the escaped Death Eaters.
. . . . .
The spacious living room of the country house was plunged into darkness, despite the clear morning outside. The curtains were tightly drawn: only the weak, barely visible flame of the dying fireplace and a lamp with a practically opaque shade next to the armchair served as the only sources of light. Of course, thin lines of light peeked through between the curtains and the floor, but they did not illuminate anything; on the contrary, they created an even starker contrast and thickened the gloom.
In that very armchair, next to which the lamp stood, sat a wizard in dark robes. Not a single distinguishing feature of his could be made out in the darkness—only a faint outline, a gold ring with a diamond-shaped dark stone in its setting, and the book in his hands. It was one of the few things in this living room that could be clearly seen, and its text read.
"My Lord," spoke a second wizard, who stood at the other end of the living room and patiently waited for the "Lord" to finish reading and turn the page. He was not young, but due to the surrounding gloom, no specific details could be discerned.
Instead of an answer, he received only a slight wave of the hand bearing the ring, indicating that he was being listened to. The page turned.
"The convicted Death Eaters have escaped from Azkaban."
There was no reaction.
"Someone conjured the Dark Mark over MacPherson's house. There are well-founded reasons to consider this respectable wizard dead. As far as I know, none of the Mark bearers had the slightest reason to show aggression against this worthy pureblood wizard. Let alone ultimately using the Mark."
The wizard in the armchair touched the ring with his other hand, or rather, the stone on it. As if suffering from a bad habit, he began to twist the ring on his finger, clearly pondering something, and no one interrupted these reflections.
Only when one of his hands disappeared into the gloom again, and the second—the one with the ring—rested on the book once more, did the other wizard ask:
"What are your orders, My Lord?"
"Assign them some task," came the quiet voice of the wizard in the armchair, but even hearing this voice, one could not give any description of its owner. "They will be too eager for action right now, but they are utterly incapable of any rationality. They can only cause harm."
"I dare say they were never particularly known for their rationality even before."
"You are right, my cunning friend, but that does not change the current situation."
"As you command, My Lord. Should I take any action regarding the unknown wizard who used the Mark?"
"No. We will observe. In the current situation, whatever happens is for the best. Even if someone used the Mark to cover up their actions, it will only play into our hands. Actually, even if we don't put the escapees to work, their activities will be beneficial."
"But in their haste, they might... if nothing else, lose their lives."
"That is why I want them assigned to an activity. Any activity. Let them occupy themselves with healing, training, or even mowing the lawn with manicure scissors."
With a slight wave of his hand, the wizard in the armchair made it clear that the audience was over. This was enough for the second wizard to understand perfectly and depart to carry out his orders, leaving "My Lord" alone.
For a few seconds, "My Lord" simply tapped his index finger against the book.
"What will his next move be?" he said thoughtfully into the emptiness, and returned to reading his book.
. . . . .
Dampness, the biting cold of the fortress's old, darkened stones, perpetual drafts, and an aura of sorrow—this is exactly what anyone wishing to visit Azkaban would feel at any time of the year. Every now and then, one could hear the moans and howls of mad wizards who had lost their minds from staying in this inhospitable place in the middle of a cold and eternally restless ocean.
The sound of measured footsteps, a hard sole—a characteristic clatter. A wizard in a robe with a deep hood moved through the corridors of Azkaban, ignoring the few remaining Dementors in the area, and they reciprocated his indifference. The reasons for this? Unfortunately, few could tell.
The wizard approached the bars of one of the solitary cells. There, on straw-stuffed rags called a bed only out of sheer mockery, lay a short, plump witch curled up in a prison robe. Her ever-styled, short curly hair now looked more like a disheveled crow's nest. She was trembling slightly, her teeth chattering a rapid rhythm, but the cold was not to blame.
The wizard knocked on the bars of this woman's cell, but she wasn't the first to respond—someone from a nearby cell let out a piercing howl. The scream quickly turned into a gurgling wheeze, and almost complete silence reigned again—interrupted only by the whistling of the wind and the whispers of the mad inmates. These whispers merged into a monotonous, quiet rustle that wasn't even drowned out by the splashing of the waves crashing against the shore outside, beyond the castle walls.
The wizard knocked once more, and the prisoner finally noticed him. To let himself be recognized, the wizard briefly pulled back his hood, quickly pulling it back up again.
"Praise Merlin!" the witch did not stand up from her cot; no—she quickly and frantically crawled on all fours to the bars, clutching them with her hand. "I knew he hadn't forgotten about me..."
"Of course," the wizard replied calmly and pulled a small envelope from beneath his cloak. "Read it."
The prisoner, whose facial features identified her as Dolores Umbridge, quickly snatched the envelope with trembling hands, tore it open, and began to read. Her face twisted in a grimace of incomprehension; she wanted to protest, to ask a question, but instead, she slowly returned to her cot with jerky movements, curled up tightly, and began chewing the letter along with the envelope. For a few seconds, nothing happened, but then she began to twitch in convulsions. It didn't last long—soon, Umbridge grew still.
The wizard nodded to himself and turned around, heading back through the corridors of the castle.
Entering the entrance hall of Azkaban—the fortress, like all other castles, was not devoid of such a room—the wizard met with a group of other wizards.
"What have you got?" one of them asked.
"All prisoners are accounted for. There are no more escapees."
"Same for us. I think we can conclude the inspection. I do not wish to stay in this Mordred-cursed place a second longer."
The five wizards left the castle, and a tiny spider ran out of the cell containing the corpse of Dolores Umbridge—it had nothing left to do in this specific location, as the object of its surveillance had successfully departed for the next world. And far away in Scotland, in the library of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a certain stately dark-haired boy smirked and shook his head reproachfully. But he didn't dwell on the information received from the spider, because the books weren't going to read themselves.
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