"Thank you for coming so quickly, Rufus. Apologies for the late hour," Dumbledore said calmly. "But I have a story you might find interesting."
Scrimgeour frowned, his tawny hair falling in disarray around his face. His lion-like, yellowish eyes swept sharply over the three men standing before him on the rocky shore: Dumbledore, Snape, and Anthony. They stood among the jagged rocks, wands aloft. Wind howled. Waves crashed against the stone, thunderous.
"I received your Patronus, of course," Scrimgeour said. "You said it was about Azkaban?"
His gaze slid suspiciously toward Anthony. Anthony offered him a polite smile.
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said. "We heard a rumor. At sunset, someone saw a large black dog charge into the sea and swim away."
"A large black dog?" Scrimgeour repeated. In the distance, the beam of a lighthouse slowly swept around, casting a white slash across the dark water near them.
"We suspect Mr. Sirius Black has decided to return to Azkaban," Anthony said.
Dumbledore explained it quickly to Scrimgeour: Sirius's departure, the chip wrapper, the Boggart in the Shrieking Shack. "Sirius seems intent on returning to Azkaban to take revenge on Pettigrew," Dumbledore concluded. "Though I must admit I cannot fully comprehend his reasoning, all clues point to this as the most likely outcome."
"But, that's…" Scrimgeour began, then stopped. He studied Dumbledore's face for a moment, then turned abruptly. He raised his wand and began tracing a complex pattern over the sea. "I'll arrange an emergency vessel, Dumbledore. Regardless, Black is the current headline… You guaranteed no further incidents when you placed him in the Hogwarts hospital wing! And besides…"
Even as he worked, he shot an untrusting glance at Snape and Anthony, clearly baffled as to why Dumbledore had brought along two prime candidates for Azkaban residency.
"I assure you, I did not beg to have Black installed in the hospital wing," Snape said. "Believe me, I would have been delighted to see what happened once he was transferred to St. Mungo's."
"My apologies," Dumbledore said, utterly unruffled.
Scrimgeour's wand gave a final, sharp flick. A familiar, narrow boat materialized silently among the waves. Scrimgeour hitched up his robes and boarded first. Dumbledore followed, stepping aboard in one long stride, then looked back at Anthony and Snape.
Snape's deeply furrowed brows cast severe shadows in the wandlight. He looked utterly miserable, but he stepped onto the boat without hesitation. Anthony jumped on after him. The boat became instantly, precariously crowded. Waves slapped dangerously against the sides, rocking the vessel.
"I believe that's everyone," Dumbledore said lightly. "We may depart, Rufus."
…
Scrimgeour's wand guided the boat's direction. Dumbledore stood behind him at the stern, robes billowing in the sea wind, watching the receding mainland. Anthony and Snape sat on the damp, rough wooden benches at either end, listening in silence to the roar of the ocean.
"Frankly, I don't believe Black can find Azkaban," Scrimgeour called out, scanning the black water around them. "Locating a tiny island in this vast sea is nearly impossible…"
"It is indeed a considerable challenge," Dumbledore agreed. He flicked his wand. The howling wind and crashing waves abruptly fell silent, contained by some invisible bubble. Anthony could suddenly hear the faint tap-tap-tap of Snape's fingers against the boat's edge.
"For centuries, Azkaban has been hidden by magic," Scrimgeour said, glancing down at a brass compass-like instrument on his leg and adjusting his wand slightly. "No Muggle has ever found it. No wizard has ever navigated to Azkaban without an Auror's guidance—let alone at night."
Anthony surveyed the endless, dark sea. He had to admit Scrimgeour had a point. Leaving was one thing. Finding his way back? Not so easy.
Fog engulfed them. The white light of their Lumos charms couldn't penetrate the thick mist, merely giving it a spiderweb-like, clinging, unpleasant whiteness. Below them was black, depthless water. In the new silence, it felt almost like sailing into eternal nothingness.
"And these mists," Scrimgeour said, "they—"
"Instantly inform one that they are near a wizarding construction. Immediately announce they are not far from the bullseye," Snape cut in, utterly without courtesy. He was pressed tightly against the backboard, looking pale and ill in the wandlight.
Scrimgeour glared at him. He seemed unable to find a suitable retort, so he merely gave Snape a deeply unpleasant once-over before turning back, expression dark, to watch their course.
"Henry, any thoughts?" Dumbledore asked.
"Well… we might as well check Azkaban itself?" Anthony suggested. "That's still the most likely place for Sirius. By the way, has security been… strengthened?"
When he'd left last time, he'd merely politely requested passage from those dark, strange Dementors. They had led him to a boat, floated ahead to guide him through the mist, then flown back to the island.
As he'd emerged from the fog, the familiar mainland had lain before him, and his boat had shot through the water like an arrow, sliding into a secluded cove where a few other boats were moored. He remembered how the dozing guard had startled awake, his newspaper sliding from his chest, and how that look of utter surprise had remained as he helped Anthony contact the Ministry—even giving him directions back to the supermarket to quit his job.
Scrimgeour took a deep breath. "Azkaban has always been perfectly secure."
"Hmm," Anthony said. "Alright. If you say so."
Dumbledore's tone grew more serious. "I recall speaking with Cornelius about Azkaban. His trust in the Dementors…"
Scrimgeour was silent for a moment. "The Minister believes the Dementors are invaluable allies," he said quietly. "For so many years, they have never been a problem…"
"Never?" Dumbledore said.
"Mmm," Anthony said. From the corner of his eye, he saw Snape turn his head slightly to observe him.
Scrimgeour sounded irritated. "Fine. Most of the time! The vast majority of the time!—We're here."
He sounded almost relieved.
The fog had dissipated without them noticing. Before them loomed a massive structure that seemed to merge with the night. The boat rocked violently, then bumped against something and stopped. In the wandlight, Anthony recognized the dock from his last visit.
The duty room's light was off. Scrimgeour didn't seem surprised. He took a breath, stood, and was the first onto the island.
Dumbledore stepped nimbly onto the rocky ground, even having the leisure to turn and offer a hand to Snape and Anthony. Snape scoffed, looking pale as he disembarked and gripped one of the dock's wooden posts for support.
"Thank you, sir," Anthony said, hauling himself up with Dumbledore's arm.
The four of them climbed a small set of stone steps onto the island in silence. Anthony couldn't help asking, "No one on duty today?"
He remembered the staff member and the Auror who had let him keep the skeletal cat. He'd been grateful.
"Ah, no," Scrimgeour said. "Not recently."
Anthony was confused. "But then—"
"Truthfully, there's typically no one stationed here… You know, the Dementors are enough…" Scrimgeour said, glancing at Anthony, clearly understanding his question. "That was a special period, back then."
"What special period?" Anthony still didn't get it.
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "Harry was about to start school, wasn't he?"
Scrimgeour hesitated, then admitted, "Yes." He seemed to intensely dislike the environment; his brows were tightly knit, and he seemed willing to answer any voice that wasn't the wind. "We thought it would be difficult for Death Eaters to find a hidden infant. If they wanted to act, they'd likely choose a known time and place."
"Age eleven. Hogwarts," Dumbledore nodded. "Quite right."
"Oh," Anthony said.
They continued upward. The ground was all crushed stone, grating under their feet. Anthony didn't remember climbing such a long staircase before, but maybe that was because he'd been busy trying to make conversation with the Auror, not admiring the view. Wind moaned around the fortress. Several Dementors drifted in and out of empty windows.
They reached a large iron gate. Anthony remembered his escort producing a great jangling ring of keys. Scrimgeour simply traced a pattern in the air with his wand, muttered something, and a red light shot from his wand tip, sinking into the metal.
A moment later, a Dementor approached.
Anthony glanced sideways. Snape was gripping his own sleeve and wand tightly. Dumbledore's expression was graver than Anthony had ever seen. Scrimgeour breathed heavily, a muscle in his cheek twitching. Among them all, only Anthony seemed to feel nothing.
"I require entry to Azkaban," Scrimgeour told the Dementor.
The Dementor slowly extended a hand hung with rotting flesh and gestured vaguely.
"I said, I require entry to Azkaban!" Scrimgeour's tone hardened. "Do you not know who I am? Or let me put it this way: has anything that should not be here entered the prison?"
The Dementor paused, then gestured toward the four of them. Anthony found it vaguely amusing and pointed at himself, but the others were not entertained. Scrimgeour's voice grew rougher. "Let. Us. In."
The Dementor made a hollow, gurgling sound, like a swamp slowly consuming its prey in a cavern. Dumbledore stepped forward, placing himself beside Scrimgeour. His hair whipped wildly in the wind. His eyes, sharp as blades, fixed on the Dementor. The terrifying creature floated back a little, cutting off the awful noise.
"Let us in," Dumbledore said. Anthony had never heard that tone from him. "You heard me."
The Dementor gurgled in apparent displeasure for a moment, then extended its rotting hand, curled a knuckle, and knocked on the iron gate. With a horrible screech, the heavy door swung inward. The Dementor swept past them, a wave of cold in its wake, and disappeared into the fortress.
Dumbledore's brows drew together. Anthony felt a wave of anger emanate from him, almost like physical heat. But Dumbledore snuffed it out as quickly as it came. "Very well. Let us proceed."
Scrimgeour seemed to be stewing in the frustration of the Dementor obeying Dumbledore after ignoring his own command. He nodded silently, raised his wand with a whispered "Lumos," and strode into the iron-black prison.
"Which cell holds Peter Pettigrew?" Anthony asked.
"Inside," Scrimgeour said grimly. "Sirius Black's old cell."
The place was as quiet as Anthony remembered. Beyond the faint echo of sobs trapped in the walls, there was only the sound of breathing. Prisoners still conscious watched the wandlight pass with dull, empty eyes, or bared broken, toothless grins.
Further in, they saw more Dementors. The cloaked figures drifted through the corridors, pausing occasionally before a cell to draw a deep, rattling breath. Then, a shuddering impact would sound from within.
"Have you sensed more than one person in any of these cells?" Scrimgeour demanded of a nearby Dementor.
The creature ignored him, continuing its inhalation.
"Forget it. They're blind. Mostly deaf… They navigate by scent… I can't imagine why Black would want to come back here unless he's truly mad," Scrimgeour muttered. "Expecto Patronum!"
A silver lion materialized silently beside him. It prowled majestically, inspecting the cells on either side, or lowering its head to bare fangs at the Dementors that drifted too close. A few of the creatures scrambled back, but more followed behind them.
"That is Pettigrew's cell," Scrimgeour said. "The door is locked. And—look. Only one person inside."
"But, Mr. Scrimgeour," Anthony said, casting a steady white light ahead. "I don't believe Peter Pettigrew is that tall, is he?"
Their light seemed to alert the standing figure inside. He turned. Beneath tangled, dark hair was Sirius Black's handsome face. In his hand, a rat screeched and struggled.
"Oh," Anthony breathed. "Well, Minerva. Grey eyes. Black hair. About this tall."
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