In an uncharted northern sea off the coast of Britain lies an extraordinarily peculiar region.
It is called peculiar because the weather here has remained relentlessly foul for countless years, never changing. At the center of this region sits a small island that has long been swallowed by storms.
Icy rain crashes down relentlessly, while bone-piercing winds lash against everything in their path, accompanied by thunder that tears through the sky at irregular intervals.
On this island, the weather seems eternally wretched. Sunlight never appears to find its way here, to the point that the concepts of day and night have lost all meaning.
Through the heavy curtain of darkness, one can faintly make out a massive fortress rising from the island. And around that fortress, like a trick of the eye, shadowy figures seem to circle endlessly in the air.
Those shadows appear to lack any physical form, drifting around the fortress and deepening the oppressive, sinister atmosphere.
What's more, despite the clearly man-made structures, not a single light can be seen burning anywhere, as though the entire place has long been abandoned.
Yet in this environment where no living humans should possibly exist, faint screams and sobbing can still be heard, carried through the wind.
Presented with such a sight, no sane person would ever consider setting foot on this island, let alone entering that fortress that seems ready to devour life itself.
This fortress built upon the island... no, this island itself.
With the current capabilities of Muggles, it is impossible to find this place, and the wizarding world has long since exiled it from the world.
Yes. Exiled.
A small island hidden within the frigid waters of the North Sea, a place that cannot be found on any map in existence.
To be precise, it is a place wizards have deliberately ensured no one would ever know about.
And at this very moment, this island unexpectedly welcomed several uninvited guests...
...
Against a sea lit by flashes of lightning, faint human silhouettes could be seen approaching.
As time passed and the distance closed, a small wooden raft appeared atop the raging ocean, one that could carry no more than three people.
Setting aside how a raft had ended up on the open sea, or how those aboard managed to steer it here at all, the mere fact that such a fragile vessel could move steadily through such violent weather, like a great ship cutting through the waves without any sign of capsizing or breaking apart, was already enough to shock anyone who saw it.
This was completely unscientific.
Except for wizards.
Tap.
The first to step onto the rocky ground was clad in pitch-black robes, which showed not the slightest trace of dampness despite the surrounding storm. They were so dry and pristine that they looked as though they had just been taken off a rack in a magical shop and put on moments ago.
Following the line of the robes upward, one would find that the wizard's face was completely hidden beneath a hood. Only the hoarse sound of his breathing could be heard, suggesting that he was quite pleased with what lay before him.
Or rather, that the environment itself pleased him.
"So this is it, Azkaban."
What kind of voice could belong to a wizard like this?
Dark. Terrifying. Evil. Mad.
It was only a voice, yet those emotions could be felt within it. Or perhaps it was the magic and presence surrounding the wizard that revealed a malice so deep it felt like staring into an abyss.
Even without knowing who he was, it was obvious that this was a dark wizard who killed without hesitation, wicked to the point of madness.
After the hooded wizard disembarked, the two figures behind him finally stepped onto the ground as well.
But calling them companions would be rather generous.
Upon closer inspection, it became clear that although they were also wizards traveling with him, their behavior in his presence was excessively deferential.
Calling them companions felt less accurate than calling them servants.
In fact, from the moment they emerged from the sea, neither of them had raised their heads even once. They remained bent forward, eyes fixed on their own feet, their posture and distance never changing in the slightest.
Their deferential posture made it seem as though the wizard before them was some kind of exalted figure.
That was, until the wizard at the front finally called their names.
"Crouch. Peter. Do you know why I came here in person?"
"..."
"..."
They offered no reply. They both knew perfectly well that this wizard had no interest in hearing their answers. More importantly, they did not dare to guess what he might be thinking.
In the next instant, the two of them dropped to the ground in unison, pressing themselves at the wizard's feet. The way they looked now was no different from loyal dogs, lacking only wagging tails.
Among them, the one whose expression remained fanatically devoted even when unseen was Barty Crouch Jr., the very wizard Harry Potter had once confronted and spoken to face to face.
The other, whose reverence was overshadowed by sheer terror, was Peter Pettigrew, the man who had once lived as Ron Weasley's pet rat.
No one would have imagined that these two wizards would appear here together.
Amid Barty Crouch Jr.'s feverish excitement and Peter Pettigrew's uncontrollable trembling, the lone wizard standing in the storm finally spoke.
"Because I wanted to see with my own eyes how many Death Eaters, after all these years, are still loyal to their Dark Lord."
A cold so piercing it seemed capable of freezing flesh traveled through the air and reached the ears of Barty Crouch Jr. and Peter Pettigrew.
In that moment, it was as if they could see the blood-red eyes hidden beneath the hood.
And the murderous fury reserved for traitors.
"Master! Leave those traitors to me! I'll make them suffer the greatest pain before they die!"
Barty Crouch Jr. looked like a madman, his body trembling violently with excitement, like the most devout of martyrs.
And that single word, "Master," made the identity of the wizard before them unmistakably clear.
The only wizard in the world who could inspire such fanatical devotion in Barty Crouch Jr., and terrify Peter Pettigrew so deeply that he scarcely dared to breathe.
Their master.
Tom... no...
The Dark Lord who ignited the first wizarding war in Britain. The supreme villain who led the Death Eaters and plunged the magical world into chaos. The mysterious figure whose name countless wizards still dared not speak aloud, even after his long disappearance.
He was Voldemort!!