"My friend," Dumbledore murmured, his eyes filled with memories.
Jon stood quietly beside him, saying nothing.
They lingered at the edge of Winchester's ancient city for a long while.
"Jon, take my arm," Dumbledore suddenly instructed.
Jon hesitated briefly, then reached out and grasped Dumbledore's extended forearm.
"Very good," Dumbledore said. "Now, let's go."
...
Jon held tightly onto Dumbledore's arm—then everything around him went pitch black.
He felt himself being squeezed from all directions, unable to breathe. It was like his chest was being crushed by iron bands. After what felt like an eternity, he finally gasped for breath, gulping down the cold night air as he forced open his tear-filled eyes...
For a second, it felt as if he'd just been pushed through a narrow rubber tube.
"Apparition," Professor Dumbledore said calmly. "Uncomfortable, yes—but you'll get used to it."
"Thank you, Professor," Jon said as he climbed to his feet and straightened his clothes.
Then, suddenly, he sensed a strange chill creeping in from all directions.
It was mid-July, and he was wearing two layers, yet this cold didn't feel natural at all.
But Dumbledore's summoned phoenix descended from the sky and landed beside him, its wings spreading gently around Jon... The chill vanished almost instantly, replaced by a soothing warmth.
Only then did Jon have the energy to glance around and see where they had Apparated.
They were standing on the rocky shore of a small island.
In front of them loomed a massive, gloomy fortress. Behind them stretched the boundless sea.
Countless black specks filled the night sky, as if trying to fly toward the island—though at the same time, they looked like they were fleeing in fear.
"Where are we?" Jon asked softly.
"Azkaban," Dumbledore replied calmly. "A terrifying prison for wizards."
...
Seeing Jon's frightened expression, Dumbledore chuckled.
"Don't worry. No one's going to send you to Azkaban just because you turned a Boggart into the headmaster. Only the darkest of criminals ever see the inside of this place."
Jon scratched his head with a sheepish grin.
Dumbledore glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes until nine-thirty. We've got time for a little chat."
He reached into his robes again... After about a minute, Albus Dumbledore finally fished out what he was looking for.
"Take a look at this, Jon."
Jon carefully took the object from his hand. As he looked down, his heart leapt into his throat—but he kept his expression calm.
He had to force himself to use Occlumency, suppressing any visible reaction.
Dumbledore, meanwhile, was peering curiously at a smooth pebble, seemingly paying Jon no mind.
"I think..." Jon said calmly, "This looks like a bullet casing?"
"Exactly!" Dumbledore said, tapping two of the pebbles together like a child playing with marbles. "Curious, isn't it? I discovered them at the site where Percy Weasley was attacked."
"That is rather strange..." Jon said quietly, returning the casings to him.
"Curious things... and dangerous," Dumbledore muttered, his voice dropping lower.
He suddenly tossed the casings forward—there was a splash, and they disappeared into the sea.
Jon couldn't figure out what Dumbledore meant by it.
Was it a warning? A gesture of goodwill? Or simply something random?
"That was fifty years ago," Dumbledore said deeply. "Since that terrible war began."
"I lost many students... and friends."
"Yusuf Shackle, professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts from 1927 to 1941. An exceptionally gifted teacher. He died in July 1941 in Benghazi, Libya."
"Edwardus Tuft, Seeker for the English National Team—he once set the record for fastest Snitch capture while playing for Slytherin. It stood until a year ago, when Harry Potter broke it... He died in June 1944 on the beaches of Normandy."
"Alan Ross—he had the greatest talent for Transfiguration I've ever seen... In December 1940, a firebomb dropped by a plane incinerated him in Diagon Alley. He was only fifteen."
At that moment, Albus Dumbledore no longer looked like the most powerful wizard in Europe. He looked like an old man, clinging to memories of the past.
"Nearly half the Hogwarts staff... and a quarter of our graduates... died in that war. So many years have passed. Some may have forgotten—but I remember it all, as if it were yesterday."
"Dumbledore... Professor..." Jon said softly.
"Forgive an old man for dwelling on the past," Dumbledore sighed. Then his expression hardened. "If anything in this world is truly terrifying... it's open war between wizards and Muggles."
"That must be prevented at all costs."
...
Jon was still trying to make sense of Dumbledore's words when a sharp crack echoed through the air. Two figures appeared just ten yards away.
"Good evening, Cornelius," Dumbledore greeted warmly. "And Amelia."
"Oh, Dumbledore—always so punctual!" Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, was a short, stout man in a dark green coat, looking rather grim.
Standing beside him was a broad-shouldered witch with a square jaw and short gray hair.
"Professor Dumbledore," said Amelia Bones with a nod, then cast a curious glance at Jon.
"Just a first-year student," Dumbledore said casually, offering no further explanation. "Jon, this is Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, and Amelia Bones, Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
"Good evening, Minister... Director," Jon greeted them quickly.
Madam Bones gave him a kind smile, but Fudge didn't acknowledge him at all.
"What's going on, Cornelius?" Dumbledore asked. "Why did you summon me here?"
"It's dreadful... A prisoner has escaped... The first escape from Azkaban in all these years..." Fudge stammered.
"Sirius Black."