The icy air that blew over the island of Azkaban cut to the bone, as if the very sea surrounding it intended to swallow every trace of life. I walked along the stone pathway that connected the small boat to the island. Each of my steps echoed in the absolute silence. Each step brought me closer to the most feared prison in the magical world, a place that had always inspired in me a mixture of fear and disgust. Although years had passed since my last encounter with the Dementors, those shadowy beings still had a strange power over me.
My task, seemingly simple, was to recover confidential documentation requested by the Ministry, originating from the darkest corners of Azkaban. However, what I couldn't stop thinking about was that this place, which represented all the dark and terrible things I had faced in my life, remained a place that I could never stop being puzzled by. Not just because of what had happened there, but because of what still lingered there: the shadows, the whispers, the void.
The memories of my youth, of the times when the Dementors had hunted me, wouldn't leave me alone. I remembered the feeling of despair that would wash over me during those endless nights. That scream, perhaps the scream of my mother as she died, imprinted in the most traumatic memories of my fiercest enemy. A chill ran down my spine just thinking about it. No matter how many years passed, those images would not leave my mind.
As I crossed the threshold of the prison, the Azkaban guards watched me in silence. None of them dared to speak, but I could feel their empty eyes on me, eyes that had grown used to seeing suffering and despair over the years. The others, the ones trapped in the prison, were so immersed in their own torments that they no longer seemed to notice anything other than the agony of their confinement.
In my mind, the echoes of the past resounded loudly, and my breathing grew heavier. However, I couldn't give in to fear. I couldn't let my history with Azkaban define what I had to do today. I stopped for a moment before entering the main building, taking a deep breath, focusing on the purpose of my mission. This was not a place to hesitate. I couldn't afford to lose my focus.
The archivist of Azkaban, a man named Simeon Blackwell, was waiting for me at the entrance of the main building. Blackwell was a tall man, with a severe face, and dark hair that was already starting to gray at the temples. I knew him by sight from my time at Hogwarts. We had never been friends, but there was something about him that had always caught my attention. He was calm, observant, almost too quiet for my liking. If someone had asked me if I thought I would ever work in a place like Azkaban, I would have answered that I never imagined it. But here he was, a man who seemed to be in his element, surrounded by documents and dark secrets.
"Potter!" Blackwell said, his tone not overly friendly, but not rude either. "It's a pleasure to see you here. How's it going?"
I nodded without saying a word, keeping my face impassive, though inside, nerves were starting to rise. The air in the room was thick, charged with an oppressive atmosphere that seemed to have absorbed all the light. The room, located in the center of the prison, was dark, without windows, with shelves full of documents and books of all kinds. Somewhere in my mind, the fact that I was surrounded by papers, meticulously classified and labeled, made me feel the irony of the situation: a place that stored the worst secrets of the magical world, yet its deepest essence was written in ink, in words, in records so fragile that the slightest breeze could carry them into oblivion.
It was not a place that inspired trust, and I knew that. However, I had a mission to complete, and I had to focus on that. It wasn't the time to get lost in memories. I needed to be quick and precise.
"I'm here for some important documents, Blackwell. The Ministry needs them urgently," I replied, my voice firm, though with a slight tension I was trying to hide.
"Of course, of course," Blackwell said, nodding as he got up from his desk. His eyes glinted slightly as he observed me, as if he were evaluating something more than my response. He didn't say anything more, but the look he gave me was something I couldn't ignore. Something about it told me that I hadn't fully explained myself. I wasn't just the Auror coming to collect documents. There was something else, a layer of suspicion hanging in the air between us.
He began walking toward a door at the back of the room. It wasn't a large or majestic door, but small and discreet, almost as if trying to hide itself among the shadows. This only made me more uneasy. A feeling I had tried to repress began to bloom within me: the sense that there was something more to this place, something hidden behind every corner, behind every folder, behind every word.
As I entered the room, I could tell it was not an ordinary archive. The shelves were filled with folders containing highly sensitive cases, many of them marked with the seal of "Confidential" or "High Risk." The cases stored here were as dark as Azkaban itself. However, what caught my attention the most was the strange atmosphere that prevailed in the room. There was something in the air, something that made me uncomfortable. It was the feeling that everything was being watched, that someone else, or something else, was present among us. As if the walls themselves knew what we were discussing, what we were searching for.
"The documents you're looking for are at the back," Blackwell said, pointing to a table where several folders rested. But before I could approach, he interrupted me again. "But let me ask you a question, Potter. Are you sure you're only here for those documents?"
I looked at him in surprise. He wasn't a man prone to surprises, but this time the question caught me off guard. My heart skipped a beat, and though I tried to stay calm, something in his tone made me suspect. Did he know something more than he was letting on?
"What do you mean?" I asked, unable to conceal my confusion.
"I know the Ministry has been investigating the theft of Sirius Black's file. And I know you've been more involved in that investigation than anyone else. You're not fooling me, Potter. I don't think you're here just for a few documents that any other Auror with less renown could have come to collect. There's something more at stake, isn't there?"
The name Sirius Black echoed in my mind like a distant echo. I gritted my teeth, feeling my chest tighten as I remembered the injustice he had suffered, his time in Azkaban, the horrendous death he had faced. For years, I had wanted to clarify everything related to him, his life and death, but above all, the theft of his file. However, now, in front of Blackwell, I felt as though I were trapped in a maze of secrets, as if everything I had done up until this point was just the tip of the iceberg.
"How do you know that?" I asked, my voice harsher than I intended.
"The people of Azkaban talk, Potter. And one learns to listen, especially when the murmurs are about something as important as what happened with Sirius Black, what happened to both of you. I'm not a fool," Blackwell replied, his eyes gleaming with an intelligence I hadn't anticipated.
I frowned. Something didn't add up in the conversation. Blackwell seemed to be more involved than I thought. He wasn't just an archivist, he wasn't just someone who stored documents and secrets. There was something more behind his gaze. Something he was hiding from me.
"If you're suggesting there's more behind all of this, I assure you I'm just here to do my job," I replied, trying to maintain my composure.
Blackwell watched me for a moment longer, then seemed to accept my response, though he wasn't fully convinced. Without saying another word, he walked over to the table where the documents waited. He pulled out a thick folder and placed it in front of me, as if expecting me to take it without further ado.
"Here's what you asked for. But I advise you to be careful with what you discover. The shadows of Azkaban never disappear, Potter, and the people who come to this place are always marked by them."
I took the folder without saying a word, but Blackwell's words still lingered in my mind, like a warning echo. The pressure in my chest increased as I left the room, the sense that I was about to uncover something much bigger than I had imagined. The pieces of the puzzle didn't quite fit together, and the worst part was that I felt like I was only halfway through a story I didn't fully understand. Azkaban, with its secrets, with its dark history, never stopped holding surprises. And the worst part was that I seemed to be right at the center of them.