Prologue - A Free Man

Azkaban, the grim stone fortress, stood as a monument to despair in the middle of the stormy sea. The waves crashed violently against the black walls of the prison, emitting a constant and threatening sound. Dense fog enveloped the structure, giving it an even more oppressive and sinister air. A pale beam of light filtered through the dark clouds, casting a ghostly glow over the scene.

Upon entering the corridors of Azkaban, the heavy atmosphere was palpable. The sounds of footsteps echoed through the damp and cold walls, each beat resounding as a reminder of the loneliness and suffering that inhabited there. The cells, lined up in long rows, exuded an air of despair, with the prisoners rarely visible but always present, like shadows of a forgotten past.

At the end of one of the corridors, a heavy iron door opened to a room illuminated by a single lamp hanging from the ceiling. The room was spacious but devoid of any comfort. Along one of the walls, metal lockers were arranged in orderly rows, each with a small identification plate.

Lucius Malfoy, dressed in a worn gray uniform, stood silently. The mark of ten long years in Azkaban was visible, but without erasing his haughtiness. His eyes, once full of arrogance, now reflected a cold determination and wisdom hardened by suffering.

The platinum blonde hair, once long and loose in perfect waves, was now tied in a samurai-style bun, a striking contrast to his former aristocratic appearance. The bun, besides being practical, gave Lucius the air of a disciplined warrior, someone who had faced his own demons and emerged stronger.

The gray uniform, although worn, was impeccably arranged, reflecting a remnant of his former dignity. Even in the midst of adversity, Lucius maintained a certain level of pride and care for his appearance.

The guard accompanying him, a burly man with a severe look, took a bunch of keys from his pocket and began unlocking one of the lockers. Lucius watched with cold attention, his thoughts wandering between the past and the uncertain future awaiting him outside the oppressive walls of Azkaban.

"Malfoy," said the guard, his voice reverberating through the room. "Here are your clothes and personal items. Your wand will be handed over only at the exit door."

The locker opened with a creak, revealing a collection of personal belongings. A silver pocket watch, a ring with a black stone in the center and several other items of sentimental and material value were arranged there, each a reminder of the life he left behind.

Lucius picked up the ring first, sliding it onto his finger with an almost imperceptible expression of relief. The black stone gleamed momentarily under the dim light, as if recognizing the return of its owner. He then picked up the pocket watch, opening it to check if it was still working. The constant ticking of the mechanism seemed a sign that, despite the lost time, the world outside continued to turn.

Lucius picked up the paper bag containing his clothes and, upon smelling the unbearable stench emanating from the bag, wrinkled his nose in disgust. His elegant garments were dirty and full of holes, the result of years in Azkaban. The guards around laughed, one of them saying with disdain, "You know how it is, there are a lot of rats around here."

Maintaining his lofty position, Lucius merely raised his head and sighed in resignation. He walked to a corner of the room, where a dirty and worn curtain hung from a rusty rod. With a firm movement, he pulled the curtain, creating an improvised barrier between him and the guards who continued to watch him with looks of contempt and curiosity.

Behind the curtain, Lucius looked at his clothes with a mixture of repulsion and determination. With a deliberate gesture, he began to strip off the gray prisoner uniform, letting it fall to the floor with a dull sound. He then took the dirty and tattered clothes from the paper bag, immediately hit by the strong smell of mold and animal waste that permeated the fabric.

As he adjusted his clothes, he took a deep breath, absorbing the reality of his situation. The tattered fabric against his skin was a constant reminder of the humiliation he had endured, but also a source of strength. He knew that once outside the oppressive walls of Azkaban, he would have the opportunity to rebuild his life and reaffirm his identity. He would not risk prolonging his stay in that place even for another second by responding to the guards.

With this thought, he gave the last adjustment to his garments and stepped out from behind the curtain, ready to face the future with the same cold determination that had kept him alive during the years of incarceration. As he emerged from behind the curtain, Lucius straightened, his gaze meeting the guards' with a defiant expression. Although he maintained his haughty posture and air of nobility, his dirty and tattered clothes made him look like a beggar prince. The dignity and aristocratic presence were intact, but camouflaged by the ragged garments, creating a striking contrast that highlighted both his fall and his resilience.

"I'm ready to leave," he said, his voice firm and controlled.

As they walked through the dark corridors of Azkaban for the last time, Lucius felt a mixture of emotions. The damp cold of the walls and the sound of distant prisoners' cries were like a dark echo of his own journey. Every step he took was a farewell to the dark past and a preparation for the future.

Upon reaching the main door of the prison, the guard stopped and, with a serious expression, handed him his wand and the remaining magical artifacts, including an ebony cane with silver details.

Lucius, with a determined look, took his wand and, with elegant movements, began to cast a spell over his garments. He traced complex symbols in the air, and each gesture was precise and purposeful. As the magic took shape, a soft glow enveloped his clothes. The pieces began to regain their vigor.

First, the holes started to close, as if invisible threads were weaving the fibers back into place. The dirt and stains that had impregnated the fabric for years of neglect simply evaporated, leaving a trail of freshness. Then, the creases and wrinkles, which seemed impossible to remove, faded with a subtle tremor, returning to their original form, with perfectly aligned pleats, as if they had just come out of a luxury tailor.

Lucius smiled in satisfaction at the result. It was more than just a simple restoration of his clothes, it was a recovery of his dignity and identity. One of the guards, watching with a mixture of disdain and curiosity, muttered, "What kind of man knows these spells for fixing clothes? That's women's work."

Lucius, oblivious to the comments, remained steadfast, his gaze fixed on the door ahead. His fingers caressed the cane, long his trademark, now again in his possession. He felt the leather worn in some places, an imperfection that reminded him of the resilient nature of magical artifacts, different from clothes that could be easily restored. Without bothering to give a final look at the dark corridors he left behind, nor at the mocking laughter of the guards behind him, he waited, unperturbed, for the moment to leave.

The guard in charge, after stopping his laughter, opened the door with a magical gesture, indicating that he should proceed. As he crossed the main gate of Azkaban, the cold sea wind hit him, but he did not flinch. The force of the wind loosened his bun, making his hair sway vigorously. The salty smell of the ocean invaded his senses. Each step he took distanced him from the dark past and brought him closer to a new beginning. Lucius Malfoy, a man forged in adversity, was ready to rebuild his legacy and reclaim his place in the world.