That evening, Harry and Ron returned to Hogwarts.
The news spread through the school like wildfire. Professor McGonagall escorted them to the Gryffindor common room entrance, her tone gentle but firm. "Are you certain you don't want Madam Pomfrey to take a look at you?"
"We're fine," Ron mumbled, glancing at Harry.
"Yeah," Harry added, watching as McGonagall walked away.
"Did you really go to Azkaban and come back in one piece?" the Fat Lady's portrait asked, her voice dripping with curiosity. Harry nodded absently, his mind elsewhere. He gave the password, and the door swung open. Oddly, the common room was silent. He peered inside, only to be yanked forward by two pairs of hands the next second.
It was Fred and George.
"You actually went to Azkaban and came back unscathed?" Fred demanded.
"Sounds like a question I've heard before," Ron said as he clambered through the portrait hole. George was circling Harry, inspecting him as if checking for missing limbs. Ron added, "Thanks for asking, I'm fine too, if anyone cares about their little brother…"
The common room was packed. Harry looked around; it seemed like everyone had been waiting for them. Fred and George's friend, Lee Jordan, pulled Harry to the center of the room. Before he could say anything, a thunderous wave of applause erupted.
"Welcome back!"
"Thank Merlin you're alive!"
People shouted over each other, some coming forward to clap Harry on the back with words of encouragement. It made Harry feel less like he and Ron had just endured a Ministry punishment and more like they'd returned from a victorious battle. His heart warmed—until he spotted Percy frowning in the corner, which cooled his mood slightly.
Fred, George, and Ron pushed through the crowd, grinning as Harry struggled to field a barrage of questions.
"Is Azkaban really on an island, like the books say?" someone asked eagerly.
"Yeah—"
"Is it surrounded by magic?"
"Probably, I'm not sure—"
"Did you see the prisoners locked up there?"
"Well—"
"What do the Dementors look like?"
A chill gripped Harry's stomach—as if his insides had frozen solid. His mind flashed back to the prison, to the Dementors he'd seen: not one, but a dozen. At first glance, they were cloaked in tattered robes, impossibly tall and gaunt, their faces hidden beneath hoods. They glided toward him with an eerie, almost floating motion.
What happened next was a blur. A wave of coldness swept through his chest, seeping into his lungs. It was as if he'd plunged into an icy abyss, seeing nothing, hearing only a terrible scream that seemed to rise from the depths of his soul. Then the cold receded slightly, replaced by warmth. Harry realized he was sprawled on the ground, Ron staring at him in alarm.
It was the young witch named Tonks who had saved them. A misty silver thread shot from her wand, connected to a translucent silver hare at its end.
The hare danced through the air around them, keeping the cloaked horrors at bay.
"Don't embarrass your parents, kid," growled the man who called himself Moody. He roughly hauled Harry to his feet, gripping his collar. His magical eye spun wildly in its socket.
"Give him a break, Alastor. I didn't know what I was doing in second year either," Tonks said, stepping forward. She dug into her pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar, snapping it in half to share with Harry and Ron. "Sorry, Alastor, Dedalus, this is all I've got." Harry took a bite, and warmth flooded through him. Questions swirled in his mind, but Moody's fake eye suddenly swiveled elsewhere. "Someone's coming."
Harry caught sight of a blurry figure in the distance. From Moody's words, he guessed it was a prison guard—the human kind. Only then did he notice the Dementors had vanished.
Led by Moody, their group moved forward. After the ordeal, Harry and Ron were drained, trailing behind Tonks. Harry wolfed down the chocolate, still craving more. He glanced at Ron, who clearly felt the same.
Seeing this, Tonks slipped them another large piece of chocolate with a sly grin, shushing them with a finger to her lips before Harry could speak.
He couldn't help but like her.
Before they'd left, McGonagall had insisted they could trust Alastor Moody, a longtime friend of Dumbledore's. But compared to the gruff man, Harry felt drawn to the slightly reckless, bold, yet kind witch Hodge had mentioned.
Gryffindor Common Room
Ron had taken over the storytelling.
He described the Dementors vividly to the crowd. "It's like swallowing a block of ice. Your whole body freezes." Harry was grateful for the break, his only task now being to dodge Colin Creevey's camera lens. Colin, a Gryffindor first-year like Hodge Blackthorn, also owned a camera—but unlike Hodge, he never missed a chance to snap Harry's picture.
Luckily, Harry spotted Hermione returning from outside and seized his excuse.
"Got something important—Colin, maybe next time," Harry said, weaving through the crowd. He glanced back at Ron, who was still in his element, then pulled Hermione aside. "You were right."
"What?" Hermione asked, startled.
She'd just finished settling a group of Cornish pixies and was still catching up. On her way back, she'd run into McGonagall, who'd come from the hospital wing and asked her to give Harry and Ron some calming draught to help them sleep.
"You saw—" Hermione glanced around, lowering her voice. "So, what Hagrid said was true?"
Harry nodded grimly.
He had seen Sirius Black in Azkaban.
Oddly, before meeting Black, Harry had been consumed with hatred, ready to confront the man who betrayed his best friend. But seeing him in person stirred an unexpected pang of pity. Sirius Black was nothing like his photos. He was skeletal, almost corpse-like. His skin was a waxy yellow from malnutrition, his matted, filthy hair tangled into his tattered clothes, blending into one indistinguishable mess.
Harry stared for so long he couldn't tell if the man was alive from the faint rise and fall of his chest.
Perhaps Sirius Black would soon rot away in that cramped cell.
But then, something unexpected happened.
When Black heard Harry's name, the broken man erupted with a sudden burst of life. He lunged at the cell bars, his gaunt cheeks pressed against them, his arms clawing outward. His yellowed nails nearly grazed Harry's nose. He was laughing, crying, howling incoherently—a picture of madness.
If Moody hadn't yanked Harry back, he was certain that beastly hand, more animal than human, would have torn into his throat.
Yet, in Black's wild, dark eyes, there was something—an emotion Harry couldn't decipher.
————
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