Chapter 194: Azkaban

In the center of the North Sea, there is a place where storms gather year-round; at the heart of the storm lies a small island.

This island has never appeared on any map, neither Muggle nor wizard maps, and any vessel approaching it inexplicably veers away.

For this place is forbidden ground not only for Muggles but also for wizards.

Upon this small island stands a prison—Azkaban.

In July, when the monsoons of the North Atlantic are at their fiercest, the storms surrounding the island reach their annual peak; howling winds whip up seawater, violently crashing against the black rocks of the island, sending spray dozens of meters high, as if trying to wash away the prison built from those black rocks and scrub clean the filth within.

The sky above the island is nearly always shrouded in dark clouds, with oppressive rain clouds that instantly weigh upon the heart.

Amidst this tempest of storm clouds, a black carriage speeds through; the carriage is exceedingly strange, lacking windows on its body, which is rather slender and long, and were it not for the four wheels beneath, it would look exactly like a coffin.

The wild winds batter the carriage violently yet fail to shake its seemingly fragile frame; pulling it are nine emaciated black winged horses with dragon-like heads and enormous bat wings, these nine black steeds ignoring the storm entirely as they tear through it, dragging the carriage swiftly toward the island.

The storm finally breaks, pouring rain down from the heavens; the black carriage descends from the deluge, its wheels skimming the water's surface and kicking up massive sprays.

But as they drew closer to the island, the winds and waves grew ever stronger, forcing the carriage to slow until it bobbed up and down amidst the giant waves like a piece of duckweed.

The black winged horses beat their wings faster, their movements becoming labored, indicating that reaching the island was no simple task.

Suddenly, a burst of bright fire erupted from the rear of the carriage, imparting tremendous momentum; leveraging this force, the carriage finally broke free from the grip of the wind and waves, surging onto the island.

The carriage door opened, and a wizard stepped out; he was short and stout, with hair groomed to a shiny finish.

He wore a pinstripe suit, a purple tie, a long black cloak, and brown pointed boots.

Upon his head sat a dark green top hat, but a strong gust of wind blew it away.

He swiftly drew his wand and shouted, "Accio Hat!"

The hat struggled briefly in midair before being blown away without a trace, as if mocking his presumption.

The dozen or so Aurors behind him awkwardly averted their gazes, while two reporters holding old-fashioned cameras followed in the Aurors' wake.

"Oh, Merlin's beard!" Fudge's feet finally touched solid ground, and the nausea from the carriage ride subsided considerably.

The cameras carried by the two reporters began to flash, documenting Fudge's arrival on the island.

"The weather here is truly terrible! I hate this place!" a young Auror with blond hair muttered quietly.

"No wizard likes it here," said a middle-aged Auror whose face bore various scars left by battle.

"So, why has the Minister come here for no reason?" the young Auror asked, watching Fudge strike various poses for the photos.

"He is demonstrating an attitude to the wizards!" The middle-aged Auror was clearly an old hand. "Security in the Wizarding World has been poor lately; this year a big fraud named Lockhart emerged, and last year's Gringotts case still has no progress, so the Minister has come here."

"Actually, every Minister comes here, for this is Azkaban, a crucial force the Ministry of Magic uses to deter wizards! Minister Fudge is merely the first to visit in some time," the middle-aged Auror added.

The young Auror nodded thoughtfully and hurried to catch up with his senior. "This carriage was far too bumpy; couldn't we have come via Portkey, Floo powder, or Apparition?"

"If such methods could be used here,

the prisoners would have all escaped by the next day!" the middle-aged Auror said mockingly. "Remember! This is Azkaban! The most vicious prisoners in the British Wizarding World are held here!"

The young Auror nodded hurriedly and fell in line with the group.

Then, as if remembering something, he added, "I heard Hogwarts is recruiting a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher again; with your rich experience, why don't you apply? I heard even someone with a criminal record was hired as the Care of Magical Creatures professor; the benefits at Hogwarts are far better than at the Ministry."

"There is something cursed about the Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts! Changing teachers every year has gone on for many years now; those teachers end up either injured or dead, and I'd like to live a few more years," the middle-aged Auror said calmly.

"Just look at the teachers Dumbledore has found in recent years... smugglers, Death Eaters, Dark wizards, frauds... fewer and fewer people are willing to apply for this post..."

Fudge walked toward the prison; without him needing to speak, two Aurors immediately stepped forward to communicate with the Dementors, for he had no desire to be treated as food by them.

The group followed a path paved with rock until they reached Azkaban Prison.

It was a dilapidated castle occupying most of the island's area, its interior expanded by Undetectable Extension Charms to ensure it could hold all of Britain's criminals.

They had not walked far when a group of creature-like entities appeared in the corridor; standing about three meters tall, they wore black-hooded cloaks, their bodies gray and resembling rotting corpses.

They moved by gliding along the ground; the hands extending from their cloaks emitted a faint glow, gray, emaciated, and scabbed.

Dragging behind them were two shriveled wizard corpses.

The Dementors sensed the happiness of this group, especially that of the fat man leading the way, who stood out like a firefly in the dark night.

The Dementors took a deep, long, slow breath, their posture resembling that of a chain smoker who hadn't had a drag in ages, so agitated were they that even secondhand happiness stirred them.

Two Aurors expressionlessly blocked the two reporters, who tactfully lowered their cameras, pretending not to see the two corpses.

"What are they doing?" the young Auror asked in a whisper, forcibly suppressing his discomfort and daring not to look too closely at the two bodies.

"Disposing of corpses! No one can remain healthy and alive after being fed upon by Dementors," the middle-aged Auror said, pausing briefly. "It is only a matter of time."

"The prisoners of Azkaban are all madmen! This is also the most cruel place in the Wizarding World... torture!"

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