The Ministry didn't know what to make of it.

Just that morning they had received a letter telling them of urgent circumstances at Azkaban. The letter didn't state the problem, as it did when there was a break-out or an unruly dementor. It had come from Charles Figg, a particularly strong-willed Squib who lived on Bane Isle, a lump of rock near Azkaban. He usually sent monthly reports to the Ministry and did the burials as well.

"Gits, the lot of them. Making us go to bloody Azkaban when there's plenty of others…" muttered Ron Weasley, an Auror First-Class. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister of Magic, had assigned him and Harry Potter, head of the Auror Office, to check up on it.

"Well, there aren't any Dark wizards to catch, so what else are we going to do?" asked Harry irritably. "And plus, I've never been to Azkaban. Should be pretty interesting."

"Well, at least you can conjure a Patronus!" said Ron. "I've never been good at it." He shuddered. "And there are… spiders there. Big spiders. The dementors… breed them."

Harry nodded sympathetically. Ron's greatest fear was spiders. Once, a boggart had turned into a giant acromantula, and Ron, in his nervousness forgetting to destroy it, let it free. The Auror Office still had several dents in the floor from where it's legs had punctured the ground.

The telephone booth had reached the London street that it was on, and they clambered out quickly.

"Wait, how am I supposed to Apparate to Azkaban?" asked Harry. "I've never seen it."

"Guess we'll have to do Side-Along," said Ron. "And we're going to Bane Isle, not the actual prison."

Harry hooked his arm around Ron's and waited. Ron did a pivot turn and the two Disapparated.

They arrive in the gloomiest place Harry had ever seen. It was a tiny outcrop made of black, slippery rock, not unlike the place the Dursleys had gone to to escape from Harry's flood of Hogwarts acceptance letters, and standing on the rock was a dilapidated shack. A tiny candle was lighting up the window, a pinprick of light in the stormy, crashing sea.

The door of the shack flew open, and an old, grizzled man stepped halfway out.

"Come in! Come in!" He seemed to shout, but his voice was drowned out by the explosive sounds of the waves slapping against the rock. Each fresh one soaked Ron and Harry to the skin.

"Thank goodness!" Ron exclaimed when he saw the fireplace inside the house. He did a quick Flame-Freezing Spell and stepped into the fireplace, still shivering.

"It's good to see you again, Ronald," said the man. "I don't have much company around here." He glanced at Harry, then, like so many other people, his scar. "And I don't believe it! Harry Potter! I'm Charles Figg. What a pleasure, what a pleasure…" He shook Harry's hand enthusiastically. "My sister told me all about you. I believe you know Arabella?"

"Mrs. Figg's your sister?" Harry said incredulously. Arabella Figg was a Squib who had watched over Harry during his years at number four, Privet drive. She had also been a witness to a dementor attack and testified for him during a Wizengamot hearing.

"Sure is," he said proudly. "Squibs, the two of us. Makes it easier, not seeing the dementors. I'm warden of Azkaban. Nobody else wanted the job."

"Er, speaking of Azkaban… where is it?"

Charles looked at him incredulously. "You don't know…? Come outside. Ronald, you may continue bathing in my fireplace, you've seen it before."

Harry grudgingly left the shack for the cold, rainy rock. Charles pointed his staff at the water. "Even Squibs can open Azkaban. All you have to say is this." He looked out at the water and shouted, "Expecto morte graviorem fati!"

Immediately a gigantic wave came roaring out of the depths of the North Sea. It crested higher and higher, until it fell with an almighty crash.

Harry stared. Where it had just been black water was a giant black triangular prism on it's side, battered but still standing strong against the ocean. Hundreds of dementors swarmed around it, darting in and out of the top, which was the only opening.

"I expect a fate worse than death," explained Charles. "Pretty gruesome, eh?"

Harry was about to respond, when an almighty shriek came from inside the house.

"WHAT IS SHE DOING HERE?"

"WHAT IS HE DOING HERE?"

Charles smiled grimly. "It appears that Ronald has met the reason that you are here today, Harry."

They went back inside, Harry taking a last glance at Azkaban before shutting the door. That voice had sounded familiar.

Ron was standing up, clearly horrified. "Harry - what is she - how is she - oh no."

Harry glanced across the room and gasped. The person he saw there saw him and smiled a wide, toothy grin.

Harry looked at the person, then down at his hand. I must not tell lies.

"Good morning, Dolores," Charles said quietly.

Seven years in Azkaban had not done Dolores Umbridge any good. Her handmade pink prison clothes were torn and dirty, her usually curled hair a limp mess, and her smug toady face was not looking as I'm-better-than-you as Harry remembered it.

"Hello, children," she said, in a voice that was sweeter than sugar mixed with honey. "Although you're not really children anymore, are you?"

"Don't… talk… to… me," Harry growled, staring at her with dislike.

"Hem-hem," Umbridge said to Charles. "I need some tea."

He slowly brought her a cup of cold tea. She sipped it daintily then said brightly, "Oh, Mr. Potter. Still disrespectful after all these years, aren't we?" Her voice was positively dripping with sugary happiness - she was getting angrier.

"You tortured me, you evil creature!" Harry shouted at her. "You took everything I loved, and tried to destroy it."

Umbridge tut-tutted at him, then pointed to his hand. Grinning from ear to ear, she whispered, "Now, now, Mr. Potter. Mustn't tell lies."

Harry clenched his fist even tighter. There was an icy silence, colder than the North Sea, for a while, before Charles stepped between them.

"Dolores, I think it'd be best if you brought down the… problem."

"Yes, Charles," she said. She backed slowly out of the room, all the while keeping her eyes fixated on Harry and Ron. Walking up the creaking steps to the higher floor, Harry felt that those awful eyes were staring at him still. An entire fountain of emotions had erupted out of him. Hate for that despicable woman. Hate for Charles for taking care of her. Slight appreciation for the dementors for hurting her. And hate for Shacklebolt for sending him here.

"Here he is," Umbridge said, arriving in the little room again, and held out her arms.

A little baby boy was cradled in a nest of raggedy blankets. He had a mess of brown hair, skin so pale it was almost white, and the longest face Harry had ever seen on a baby.

"Dolores," Charles began, "Had this baby yesterday."

"Who'd've ever wanted a baby with her?" Ron whispered.

"Obviously, she had not come into human - er - contact for nineteen years, so the way that she had this child is completely unknown. I convinced the dementors to release her her, on Bane Isle, so she could care for the child. Dolores has not told me how she had the child."

Another wide, toady smile spread across Umbridge's face, but she didn't say anything. "My Levi," she whispered in a manical voice. "My little boy."

Harry fought the urge to vomit on the floor.

"I'll get the Minister," Ron said, and he turned on the spot to Disapparate. Horrifically, he suddenly found every single part of his body detached.

"R-r-r-reparo," Harry stuttered, and Ron's body sickeningly flew back together.

"Can't Apparate or Disapparate inside the house," Charles stated matter-of-factly. "Head outside."

A few minutes later the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, strode through the doorway.

"Mr. Weasley told me everything," he said calmly. He took out a bottle of clear liquid.

"Come here, Dolores," he ordered. She, very calmly, walked towards him and stuck out her tea cup.

Shacklebolt poured the Veritaserum into her drink, and she gulped it down.

"How did you have your child?" Shacklebolt asked immediately.

Umbridge smiled. "Haven't a clue."

The Minister looked shocked. "Explain."

"Won't," she said, still smiling.

"That was… that was matured Veritaserum!" Shacklebolt said hoarsely. "The older it is, the stronger it is. How…?"

"And don't even try Legilimency," Umbridge said, and the glint in her eye said the rest.

"This is… highly unusual," Shacklebolt said after a while. "But I think that Dolores should remain here, on Bane Isle, to raise the child. He will not be asked to go to Hogwarts or any magical school - I shall make sure Professor McGonagall will not send a letter."

"Are we… are we allowed to leave, Minister?" Harry asked.

"Yes, Potter, you may go," Shacklebolt said. "You too, Weasley."

Harry relieved, dragged Ron out the door, where he Apparated immediately.

Ron arrive a few seconds later, and they headed back down to the Ministry.

"Umbridge," Ron said disbelievingly. "Umbridge. I'm just thankful that that kid can't get to Hogwarts…"

Harry half-listened to Ron, all the while thinking. It was a skill he had gotten from listening to speeches in the Wizengamot, pretending to be paying attention.

Shacklebolt said that there was no way the baby would ever go to Hogwarts. Yet Harry knew that letters would always find their way to every eleven-year-old nearby. He himself had been found by his acceptance letter.

And he was sure that Levi would be found the same way.