1October 29, 1981

I'd heard of it before — people getting chucked into Azkaban without trial. Of course I'd heard, it's in the Prophet at least once a week! But I never thought of it too carefully. You can't be a journalist if you take everything to heart, think deeply about every story you write. It starts to tear you up inside if you do, until you're too much of a mess to write. This time it cost me though; I hadn't thought of the people thrown into Azkaban without trial, and now I've become one of them.

I'm still in awe that I managed to sneak this journal in, not to mention at least four pens to write with. Wizards don't realize how useful pens can be when you don't have time for ink and a quill. I didn't think they'd be of any use to me before I started my story on the contrasts and similarities between the Muggle and Wizarding worlds a few months ago. I'm glad I did, too. I needed that project. The whole bloody war is about the differences between Muggles and wizards, between blood. I needed to understand that difference before I could write about the war. And it's ironic, because I discovered that there's barely a difference at all. In short, we are all people.

In a way, the Muggle prisons are sometimes more secure than the wizard ones. The perfect example is how incredibly simple it was for me to hide this journal from them. You see, before you enter Azkaban, they check your robes and clothing for anything remotely magical — charms, curses, spells — or anything inside them that could hold magical properties. And of course they check your pockets, but not as carefully as the Muggles. I suppose there isn't a reason for a wizard to sneak a gun or a blade into the prison. What would they do with it, lunge at a dementor and cut its throat?

You see, I did a simple trick. My robes have two layers of fabric. All I had to do was cut a slit in one and make a pocket, slip the journal and pens into the hole, and sew it back up with a needle and thread. No magic needed. I admit though, that when I first stepped foot onto the grimy dirt of this island, I was terrified they would discover it and take it away. I didn't care about causing myself trouble for it; I was already being sent to prison, how much more trouble could I get into? No, I just didn't want them to take my journal. I can't lose my ability to write. If I can no longer form words, that's when I'll know I've lost my sanity. I pray that never happens.

I'm not sure why I thought writing will keep me sane. Perhaps it's the same principal as those who scratch marks on the walls to keep track of time. It keeps them aware of reality.

I am paranoid. I fear the dementors somehow sensing the journal. It seems foolish, I realize, but one can't help it. I am choosing to leave the journal alone for the rest of the day. There is still much to write, but I want to save it. I need to leave something to write about for the next five years.

October 30, 1981

The one thing that I never truly investigated for my story about the contrast of between the Muggle and Wizarding worlds was the Azkaban guards — the dementors. I had always said it was because I wasn't allowed in the prison, but it was a lie. In reality, I didn't want to be anywhere near the place. I've told you, you can't be a reporter if you take everything to heart. I was afraid that the dementors would take me too far.

Now I wish I had gone. If nothing else, it would have prepared me for this. I can't begin to describe these dark creatures to you in mere words. The worst is when they bring your meal. They have to come into the room to place the food down. First the edge of your vision grows dark and clouded, and you feel as though the air in your lungs came from the foulest winter storm. You don't come to the realization of how on edge you are until you hear the door knob clank open, and you jolt. The door slowly creaks open, and as your eyes meet the cloaked figure, you find yourself drowning in memories — horrid memories I never suspected i would be forced to relive. I don't know how long it was before remembered clearly where I was.

I hope with every fiber of my body that I truly didn't commit the crime I was imprisoned for. I certainly don't remember it. Up until now it has been a huge blank in my past. But the dementors fill in the gap. I don't want to write about it. Not now.

The journalist in me still thrives; I see details to write of in every crevice in the wall and every moan heard from the other cells. There are rumors of avoiding insanity within Azkaban's walls. They say you need to cling to the difference between the past and present between memories and reality. My theory is that if I can write these details down, I will know the difference.

When I first started my job for the Prophet,my boss told me, "The best writers can describe the indescribable in utmost detail." This is my goal.

October 31, 1981

It is Halloween, and I, Alfred Quiller, am spending it the day locked away in cell 712 of Azkaban prison. Ha! What better place to experience true fear?

I never had a girlfriend, you know. Not since Hogwarts. Obviously I haven't got a wife or kids, and my family died — well, all my family but my brother Derek. My point is that there's really no one that will miss me today, miss my company. Now I wish I had been closer to Derek, arrogant smirk and ego included. I realize it sounds selfish, but it would comfort me to know that someone out in the real world is worried about me.

Now that I stop to think of it, I wonder what Derek thought when he first heard about my crime. How did he hear? Perhaps he hasn't even heard at all — got too caught up in his own work to think about the rest of the world. But surely he still reads the Daily Prophet...

Derek and I never got along. I thought him to be too egotistical, while he thought me too cliché. Not to mention that I was older than him; I'm sure he gained an inferiority complex from that. He invented new potions for a living — worked for himself and only himself — while I worked for the Ministry. He must have grown to be that way out of spite; our parents were rather boring, even I admit it. But I never complained. They were still marvelous parents.

Is it possible that he is so disgusted at me for "following the crowd" that he really doesn't care? I've tried hard to imagine how I would feel if it was Derek imprisoned in Azkaban without trial, and I was the one reading about it in the Prophet. I'm still not sure though.

Am I allowed any visitors? Probably not, because of the war. Pity.

November 1, 1981

Dawn still has not broken, and I am awake because of an uproar that arose at some point in the night. I could feel it in the air, added to the dementors: I could feel it in the air, the sensation mixing with the effects of the dementors' presence: a panicked feeling, as though something was about to happen. Anticipation. Then a whimper. Someone was whimpering, though not out of fear as much as shock. Gasps could be heard down the corridor, and as they grew louder, I knew something strange was happening that hadn't happened before.

"It's gone!" a man finally shrieked, admitting his confusion. Others followed with horrified remarks such as "where is it?" and "it's never disappeared like this!"

I didn't understand it until a woman's high-pitched scream cut through the other voices: "The Dark Lord's mark has vanished!"

What does this mean?