White Ink Tavern, Second Floor
The elegant liquor cabinet, crafted from mahogany, lined the wall. Its warm hue softened under the gentle candlelight, its fine grain showcasing an array of bottles—some wizard-brewed, others rare Muggle acquisitions.
A neatly dressed waiter passed by occasionally, balancing a silver tray with swift steps, not spilling a drop of the drinks.
Melvin casually took a glass of wine, its rich aroma filling his senses.
"A visit to Azkaban?" Madam Bones said, surprised.
Melvin nodded, his smile perfectly measured, betraying nothing. "I'm researching a project on prison systems worldwide, comparing their similarities and differences. I've toured many Muggle prisons, but for wizarding ones, I've only seen Woolworth's detention cells. Azkaban is unique in Britain—using Dementors as guards is unparalleled globally. I'd like to see it up close."
"Azkaban holds wizarding criminals, mostly dark witches and wizards guilty of heinous crimes, surrounded by loathsome Dementors. It's no tourist attraction, Professor Levent," Madam Bones said bluntly.
"Academic study can reveal flaws and suggest improvements," Melvin countered.
"You think Azkaban has flaws, that it's outdated compared to Muggle prisons?" Madam Bones glanced at the young professor, her expression probing.
Melvin's demeanor mirrored an academic obsessive, like Belby. "Madam Bones, whether Azkaban is backward or advanced, it's not perfect. Studying and comparing it is about identifying shortcomings and refining it. Don't you agree?"
Madam Bones fell silent, thoughtful.
As a Hogwarts professor, Levent had stirred controversy with the Ministry over the past two years. His Mirror Club raised suspicions, and he'd repeatedly irked Fudge. Yet he wasn't a dark wizard or power-hungry schemer.
Dumbledore, Marchbanks, and others vouched for him, as did the second-class Order of Merlin on his chest.
The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement wasn't worried about ulterior motives. Her hesitation stemmed from whether Azkaban's grim reality should be exposed to the public.
Azkaban wasn't entirely sealed off. Beyond rotating staff, prisoners' families could request visits. For centuries, it maintained a perfect record of zero escapes.
To officials and most wizards, it was a competent prison. But only a few knew the island's buried truths.
Azkaban's role was peculiar. The Ministry used it as a Dementor habitat, both to confine criminals and to bait Dementors, keeping these sinister creatures from wreaking havoc elsewhere.
Prisoners' fates were grim—driven to madness, their sanity eroded. The prison even had a graveyard for those who succumbed to despair.
Should such a prison be revealed to the public?
Should it be reformed?
Weighing these thoughts, Madam Bones made her decision, meeting the young professor's deep, dark eyes. "Next week, once the holiday staff return, I'll arrange a guide for your visit."
Melvin's heart leapt. "Thank you very much."
He didn't know her internal debate. Requesting to visit Azkaban was a spur-of-the-moment idea, driven partly by curiosity but mostly to deliver Peter Pettigrew. He still needed Bellatrix's vault key.
"I have one request," Madam Bones said with a smile. "When your paper's done, could you let me review it before publishing?"
"My pleasure."
His cooperation eased her mind. As dance music played below, her gaze settled on the portly Minister, his garish purple robe straining over his bulk, his belly popping a button, clumsily waltzing like an overstuffed pig.
Yet Fudge reveled in his lack of grace, flaunting his green-ribboned first-class Order of Merlin to a Greengrass witch, grinning broadly.
"Feel ashamed?" Madam Bones nodded at Melvin's second-class medal.
Melvin paused, then shook his head. "A medal's just a symbol. It means nothing on its own."
"You're right. It's wizards like Merlin, Arcturus, Dumbledore, and you who give medals their honor," she said, eyeing the Minister's wobbling gut. "Umbridge submitted a new Anti-Werewolf Bill to the Wizengamot. It'll be voted on after the holidays. They've secured many neutral votes, and it's likely to pass soon, paving the way for Umbridge's promotion to Senior Undersecretary."
"No wonder Minister Fudge is so cheerful," Melvin remarked, sipping his wine with a tsk. "I convinced Mrs. Edgecombe to submit a proposal after the holidays, linking the Floo Network to mirrors for video transmission. Think Fudge will approve?"
"Will your or Dumbledore's name be on it?"
"Probably."
"Then expect a rejection."
…
The snowstorms of the Scottish Highlands raged into the new year.
Students enjoyed the longest holidays, with the Hogwarts Express yet to return. But the Ministry's departments had resumed work. Witches and wizards, faces drained of enthusiasm, returned to their posts, tackling backlogged tasks.
Cornelius Fudge, refreshed from a two-week break, settled into his Minister's office, reviewing department reports.
"Department of Magical Law Enforcement: Willie Widdershins enchanted a Muggle public toilet, causing it to bite a Muggle's buttocks into seven pieces. Muggle transferred to St. Mungo's, Obliviation team dispatched… Proposed sentence: three months imprisonment, pending approval."
Attached were photos, including a vivid close-up of the Muggle's mangled, bloody backside, enhanced with developing potion for motion—no mosaic, just raw detail.
Fudge's own backside clenched, sensing malice. He grabbed his quill, scrawling: "Extend to six months!"
Crossing out six months for a year, he felt marginally better. Eyeing the yellowish tea in his cup, his stomach churned again.
Two thick stacks of files awaited. Power was consolidating, but its taste wasn't all sweet.
"It'll get better once Dolores is promoted. She can handle these," Fudge sighed, resigning himself to the paperwork.
Thankfully, Widdershins' case was an outlier. Most files were routine, requiring little thought. Signing and scribbling, power's sweetness returned.
Near noon, a Department of Magical Transportation file caught his eye.
"Floo Network Office: To unlock the potential of household mirrors and leverage Floo Network resources, our office, in collaboration with the Mirror Club, proposes integrating the Floo Network with compact mirrors for…"
Mrs. Edgecombe, a pragmatic official, wrote clearly. The proposal's strategy, technical details, and pilot areas were straightforward. As a former mid-level official, Fudge saw its potential.
But Melvin Levent's name stood out.
Without much hesitation, he rejected it, citing safety concerns.
…
Meanwhile, downstairs in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Melvin stood before a fireplace, tossing in green powder. Emerald flames roared, licking the marble.
"Azkaban…"
The flames engulfed him, and he vanished.
Emerging from a cold, ancient fireplace, Melvin brushed off ash, touched his coat pocket, and looked up to see a young witch waiting.
Wearing standard Auror robes, she paced idly, chewing gum. Hearing him, she turned, revealing a heart-shaped face and exclaiming, "Professor Levent?"
Perhaps due to the chill, her skin was pale, but her bright purple eyes and voluminous pink curls brought the scene to life.
"Nymphadora Tonks?" Melvin asked, uncertain.
"That's me! Call me Tonks. Madam Bones told you, right? I'm your guide for this prison tour…" Tonks spoke rapidly, her chatter clashing with the island's bleakness.
Melvin smiled, neither confirming nor denying. "I thought you were an Auror. Why Azkaban?"
"Blame Mad-Eye! I passed my exams, finished my rotations, but he said I hadn't faced real dark wizards and sent me here to 'get experience.' So annoying!"
A capable Auror, Tonks still performed her duties amid complaints. "Professor, stick close. Dementors are trouble."
The office was for wizard staff, leading to a dim corridor lit by grimy oil lamps, their light faint but steady.
Torches were impractical here—too damp, wood scarce, and sea winds fierce. Oil lamps and candles were easier.
Tonks led the way, talking nonstop like an old friend.
They passed no one.
"There's a patrol team, but it's small, not permanent. No one wants to stay—cold, wet, and those awful Dementors. Stay too long, you'd go mad. The prisoners are so broken they can't even try escaping. Two more weeks, and I'm out. Hope I never come back…"
Exiting a door, they faced barren, jagged rocks and cliffs battered by crashing waves. Beyond, low clouds and mist loomed, the howling wind oppressive.
Looking back, the building was a fortress.
"The cliffside fortress was rebuilt several times. First built by a dark wizard, Ekrizdis, immensely powerful. He locked himself here, studying dark magic until he went insane, luring, torturing, and killing Muggle sailors passing by.
"The Ministry didn't find it until after his death, when his concealment charms faded and Dementors appeared. Aurors followed the trail to this island, the fortress, and thousands of Dementors."
Melvin glanced at the sky, heavy clouds low and murky, with indistinct shapes drifting—like storm clouds or dark birds.
An ominous magical aura carried cold despair.
"You know about Dementors?" Tonks prattled. "The fortress walls are filled with Muggle bones, tortured beyond imagination. Experts aren't sure if the suffering birthed Dementors or attracted them. Either way, anyone damaging the structure gets attacked…"
Melvin listened quietly, scanning the surroundings, recalling Azkaban's history.
Located in the North Sea, Azkaban was uncharted until the 15th century. After discovery, the Ministry marked it an uninhabitable deserted island, abandoned for years.
When the International Statute of Secrecy increased wizarding crime, small prisons were often breached. The Ministry sought a dedicated wizard prison.
Remote islands were ideal. The Hebrides were considered, but Minister Eldritch Diggory chose Azkaban.
"The prison's split into zones for different crimes. The fortress's center, where Dementors are densest, holds the worst offenders—Death Eaters, murderers, the heaviest sentences," Tonks said, her tone suggesting they deserved it.
Melvin pondered. "Why not show me the high-security prisoners?"
"They're recovering from Dementor torment, incoherent for a couple of hours. I'll take you to the minor offenders first, then we'll circle back."
She waved dismissively. "Not much to see, anyway. You'll understand soon."
Melvin followed, asking occasional questions as she explained.
On a rough patch of ground, he discreetly adjusted his coat pocket, tucking in a rat's tail.