The sea howled against the black stone of Azkaban.
Waves crashed like something alive, something angry—something that knew what this place was.
A prison.
A grave.
A monument to despair.
And yet—
I stood within it not as a prisoner.
But as its master.
The Dementors parted for me without hesitation.
Their presence pressed in from all sides, an ocean of death and emptiness, yet none dared approach too closely. Not anymore.
Not after our agreement.
Not after what I had become.
I walked slowly through the corridors, my footsteps echoing against damp stone, my mind far from the battlefield.
Because for the first time since the war began—
I was thinking.
Not about strategy.
Not about conquest.
But about him.
Albus Dumbledore.
I had believed we were equals.
That our duel had proven it.
That I had stood against the greatest wizard of the age… and matched him.
I was wrong.
The realization had come quietly.
Cold.
Precise.
Unavoidable.
Dumbledore had not attacked.
Not once.
Every spell he cast had been reactive.
Every movement defensive.
Every action… measured.
He had allowed me to dictate the battle.
Allowed me to show everything I could do.
And still—
He had not lost.
A faint, humorless smile touched my lips.
"He was testing me…"
The thought lingered, heavy and sharp.
"And I mistook it for a fight."
That meant only one thing.
He was stronger.
Not slightly.
Not marginally.
But decisively.
My grip on Salazar's wand tightened slightly.
"Then I will simply have to surpass you."
There was no hesitation in the thought.
No doubt.
Only inevitability.
And that was why I was here.
Azkaban.
Not for war.
Not for control.
But for knowledge.
The deeper I walked, the more the air changed.
It grew thicker.
Heavier.
Not with despair—but with something older.
Something buried.
My ancient magic sight flickered to life.
And the world changed.
Traces.
Threads.
Echoes of power woven into the very fabric of reality.
Most were faint—residual magic from spells cast long ago.
But deeper…
Something else.
A trail.
Ancient.
Twisted.
Dark beyond anything the Dementors themselves carried.
Ekrizdis.
The name alone felt… wrong.
Like a wound in magic itself.
I followed the traces downward.
Past levels even the guards avoided.
Past cells long since abandoned.
Past places where even the Dementors did not linger.
Until—
I found it.
A wall.
Plain.
Unremarkable.
To ordinary sight.
But to mine—
It burned with illusion.
Not simple concealment.
Not a basic charm.
A masterpiece.
Layered enchantments, ancient runes, death magic woven into illusion so complete it erased itself from perception.
"Impressive…"
I raised my wand.
Dispelling it was not simple.
It was not brute force.
It was understanding.
Hours passed.
Magic flowed through my mind, dissecting the illusion piece by piece, unraveling its structure, decoding its logic.
Until finally—
I saw it.
The flaw.
A sequence.
I moved my wand slowly, deliberately.
One spell.
Then another.
Then a third, each interacting with the illusion in precise harmony.
The wall… shimmered.
And then—
It vanished.
Revealing darkness beneath.
A staircase.
I stepped forward without hesitation.
Down.
Deeper than Azkaban was ever meant to go.
The air changed immediately.
Not cold.
Not empty.
But wrong.
The walls were different here.
Not the clean, carved stone of the prison above.
But something older.
Rough.
Uneven.
Almost… organic.
And then—
I saw it.
The chamber.
Ekrizdis' domain.
It was not one room.
But many.
A labyrinth of chambers filled with remnants of something unspeakable.
Tables of blackened stone.
Chains etched with runes that pulsed faintly even now.
Circles carved into the ground—rituals frozen in time.
And bodies.
Or what remained of them.
Skeletons fused into the walls.
Shadows burned into the floor.
Remains twisted in ways that suggested not death—
But transformation.
Even I paused.
Not in fear.
But in… appreciation.
"This…"
I stepped forward slowly.
"…is genius."
Dark.
Twisted.
Monstrous.
But genius.
I moved through the chambers, examining everything.
Every rune.
Every carving.
Every trace of magic left behind.
And then—
I found them.
The notes.
Stacked carefully on a long stone table, preserved through enchantments far older than the Ministry itself.
I picked one up.
The moment my eyes scanned the page—
I understood.
Ekrizdis had not merely studied death.
He had experimented on it.
On the soul.
On the boundary between life and death.
On fear itself.
The Dementors were not natural.
They were created.
A byproduct of something far greater.
A failed—or perhaps unfinished—attempt to weaponize death.
My smile returned.
Slow.
Deliberate.
"Dumbledore…"
I glanced around the chamber.
At the rituals.
The knowledge.
The possibilities.
"You play with spells."
I picked up another set of notes, already absorbing their contents.
Already understanding.
Already improving upon them.
"I will play with existence."
Because this—
This place—
Was not just knowledge.
It was evolution.
Life.
Death.
Soul.
Magic.
All in one place.
And I would master it.
No matter the cost.