In a high-security office deep within the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic, a man in sharp black robes sat behind an oak desk, his pale fingers steepled in thought. Before him, a swirling Pensieve projected ghostly images—memories looping silently above the silver basin. Across from him stood a tall figure in gray: Victor, rigid and expectant, his face nervous .
The man leaned back, eyes narrowing as the memory dissolved. His voice was cold and precise.
"From the way he moved… it was a boy," he said, his tone dismissive. "A young one. Male."
Victor nodded. "Yes, sir. That matches our field reports."
The man behind the desk asked, "Any more from the French?"
Victor shook his head. "They're still combing through their magical archives. Their curse-breakers are working on the door, trying to reopen it."
"Pointless," the man muttered. "Whatever was inside that sanctuary… it's already been taken. We need the one who entered it. That's the priority."
A silence settled. Then the man leaned forward, steepling his fingers again. His voice lowered.
"When I ordered you to go to Gringotts… did you do what I asked?"
Victor hesitated. "We did, sir. The goblins were… uncooperative, at first. But with a few bribes, we managed to loosen some tongues."
The man arched an eyebrow.
"One of them told us that Elara Black's vault has been accessed frequently—used almost every month since last year."
The man's head twitched slightly, then stilled. His voice dropped an octave, cold and deadly. "Who's using it?"
"They didn't say," Victor replied quickly. "We pressed them, sir, but the goblin insisted he didn't have access to those specifics. Only that the vault was in use."
The man behind the desk slammed his fist against the table, the wood groaning beneath the blow.
"I don't care how much it costs. Double the bribe. Triple it. Ten thousand Galleons if that's what it takes. I want a name. I want a face. I want to know who's using her vault and why."
Victor gave a sharp nod. "Yes, sir."
The tension slowly drained from the man's posture as he exhaled. "Where's Fudge?"
"He's at Azkaban, sir. Routine inspection of the prison. He left this morning."
"When he returns, I want to see him immediately," the man said. "Arrange it."
Victor gave a final bow. "Understood, sir." Then he turned and left the room, the door closing behind him with a muted thud.
The man behind the desk remained still, eyes locked on the now-still Pensieve, its silver surface rippling like disturbed water.
⸻
Meanwhile — Azkaban Fortress
Rain lashed the gray stone like whip strikes. The ocean surrounding Azkaban roared with fury, its black waves crashing against the cliffs. There was only one way in—by boat—and today the lead vessel cut through the storm like a dagger. Aboard it sat Minister Cornelius Fudge, shivering beneath layers of protective enchantments, surrounded by a dozen Aurors with wands drawn.
Beside him stood Kingsley Shacklebolt, expression unreadable as he read from a clipboard.
"There are currently two hundred and thirty-seven cells, Minister. All filled. Some even hold up to five prisoners—overcrowding is a growing issue."
Fudge frowned. "Why so many? What's happening out there?"
Kingsley didn't hesitate. "Not all are British. Most of the new inmates are foreign poachers, mainly from the United States—trying to smuggle magical creatures out of the country."
Fudge's face darkened. "Bloody Americans again."
He growled low in his throat. "Summon their diplomatic corps. I want a meeting. These scum should be rotting in their prisons, not ours."
"With respect, sir," Kingsley said, calm as always, "that would fall under the jurisdiction of the Foreign Policy Office."
"Then we'll fix that when we get back," Fudge snapped. "Tell Mrs. Moray to meet with me. I want to begin arrangements for a treaty or something—anything that sends these criminals back to where they came from."
"Yes, sir," Kingsley replied.
As they stepped off the boat and entered the prison's iron gates, a burst of foul wind hit them. The cries and mutterings of prisoners echoed through the corridors. Fudge grimaced.
"I hate this place."
They moved cell to cell, inspecting the worst of what magical society had to offer. Among them were the Lestranges. Bellatrix was laughing maniacally, blood dripping from her nails as she beat her own husband within the cramped cell.
When she caught sight of the Minister, she shrieked, "He's coming back, you filth! My Master is coming back! I'll carve your eyes out and make you scream!"
Fudge flinched and hurried past.
Finally, they reached the lower cells, where isolation was complete—no voices, no motion.
Fudge stepped before the final cell, glancing down.
Inside, hunched against the wall with matted hair and an overgrown beard, sat a man—silent, unmoving.
"Sirius Black," Fudge muttered. "Still alive after 13 years. That's one hell of a record for a traitor like you."
Sirius didn't respond. His eyes didn't lift.
Fudge pulled a folded Daily Prophet from his coat.
"Thought you might like a bit of news. See what you've missed while rotting in here."
He tossed the newspaper through the cell bars. It landed near Sirius's foot.
Kingsley frowned. "Why would you give him a newspaper?"
Fudge gave a dry smile. "Hope is a dangerous thing. It wakes the soul. The more hope he has… the more the Dementors will feed."
They continued the inspection. But as they turned the corner, one of the Aurors approached.
"Sir, your wife asks you to return for tonight's dinner. Her parents are visiting."
Fudge groaned. "Again? Tell her I've been called to deal with foreign delegates. Urgent ministry business."
"Yes, sir."
As Fudge boarded the boat to leave, the Auror whispered to another, "You know she'll come banging on the office door again. Whole Ministry'll hear her yelling. Poor sod."
They laughed quietly as the boats began drifting away into the mist.
⸻
Back in the Cell…
The wind howled through the broken window slits, and the paper on the ground fluttered toward Sirius's feet.
He looked down.
A family photo.
The Weasleys.
Arthur. Molly. Bill. Charlie. Percy. Fred and George. Ron. Ginny.
And in Ron's hands… a rat.
A very familiar rat.
Sirius stared. His chest rose and fell.
His hands trembled.
Then he whispered:
"You filthy rat… You're alive."
His breath turned ragged. His chest heaved. And then—
"YOU'RE ALIVE!"
He roared with fury, slamming his fists into the stone floor. The raw emotion drew the Dementors immediately—dozens of them swarming the corridor, feeding on the pain, on the realization, on the storm of rage.
Sirius screamed, louder and louder, a wolfish, unhinged sound.
"SHUT UP IN THERE!" an Auror barked, hurrying over. "You lunatic, you're waking the whole floor!"
But Sirius didn't stop. He rushed to the bars. And just as the Auror approached—
CRACK!
Sirius lunged, caught the man's wrist, twisted it with inhuman strength, and slammed his head into the iron ceiling. The Auror crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Sirius snatched the wand from the man's holster and ripped the keys from his belt. Heart pounding, he unlocked the door.
But the Dementors were closing in.
Their cold drained the warmth from the very air. His bones felt brittle. His breath froze in his throat.
But before they could close the distance—
Sirius transformed.
A burst of black mist—fur, fangs, claws.
Padfoot.
The great black dog leapt from the cell and charged down the corridor. Dementors shrieked in fury as he bolted past the gates, past the guards, and out into the storm.
Rain struck his fur. The cliffs neared.
Without hesitation, Padfoot plunged into the freezing sea and swam toward the distant horizon where the boats had once been.