The next morning, the Ministry of Magic bristled with tense anticipation as Count Dantes and Donna Lockhart arrived. Fudge stood ready, flanked by Hit Wizards who had been assigned to escort the prisoner.
"Your Excellency, Count, you're here," Fudge greeted them, turning to his men. "Bring them down to the temporary cell. Let the prisoner have one final meeting with his wife—and after that, send him to Azkaban."
The two Hit Wizards stiffened.
"Yes, Minister, sir," one responded.
They descended into the dank basement, where the temporary cell lay waiting. Lockhart looked hollow and ghostly, drained of life—when he saw them, he could only open his mouth, too numb to speak. Donna trembled beside him, white-knuckled against the cell wall. Ministerial detention had already shattered her composure. What awaited them in Azkaban?
Count Dantes broke the silence. "Minister, might we allow one final moment between husband and wife? The Anti-Apparition charms are active—no risk of escape. A small kindness before they part."
Fudge furrowed his brow in pretended doubt. "Count, that's not exactly… appropriate."
The Count smiled amiably. "The law is important—but people have feelings. Lockhart is a friend. Let us honor that friendship."
He discreetly pressed two small pouches of gold into each Hit Wizard's hand. They glanced nervously at the Minister—Fudge didn't seem opposed; he was instead examining the rusty cell door, lost in thought.
"This door's seen better days," Fudge commented softly. "It ought to be replaced."
Count Dantes nodded. "Once the Ministry of Magic Development Foundation is in place, we can commission something proper—even mentor's metal, Minister."
The Wizard escorts quickly took the hint: the Count had the Minister's ear.
"One final moment is tradition," the other Hit Wizard ventured. "It wouldn't break any rule."
"Is that so?" Fudge asked, finally turning his attention back to them. "Well, perhaps… Let them have ten minutes—away from prying eyes. Step outside, gentlemen."
Ten minutes later, the small group returned. Lockhart was ashen and lifeless; Donna clung to the wall, body wracked and weak.
"Time's up," Fudge's voice echoed through the cell. "Send him to Azkaban."
Count Dantes stepped forward, steadying Donna. "Her condition is fragile. I'll escort her out first."
"Very well, Your Excellency."
Fudge sighed. "This is a tragedy. But crimes demand justice—even if the culprit is a friend."
With a nod, the Count and Donna left. As the doors clanged shut behind them, they stepped into a harsh new reality: Lockhart's journey to Azkaban had begun.
Midnight at Azkaban
The darkest hour in Azkaban is one nobody forgets. Deep within its dank corridors, in a cell on the lower tier, a new prisoner stirred. A smuggler—imprisoned for trafficking rare, dangerous magical beasts—noticed a strange archway appear before his cell. Curious and terrified, he hurried through, searching for freedom or doom. Believe it or not, either seemed better than this place.
But he never found out. A powerful Memory Charm struck him hard; he collapsed unconscious. When he awoke, everything that had happened was gone from his mind.
Through the arch emerged a man dressed in black. One glance sent a chill through the corridors—there lay Sirius Black, though strangely calm. For a moment, he heard flapping wings—but saw nothing.
"Bats?" he murmured to himself. Strange… this island was far from home. It must be an illusion.
He closed his eyes, retreating inward. Perhaps he had dreamt of James and Lily again. He shifted into his Animagus form—a large, black dog—abandoning himself to the darkness.
Meanwhile, a real bat flitted toward higher cell blocks—Dana, who had transformed into a creature of the night. Azkaban's population was sparse, but enough to occupy the lower tiers; the top floor remained empty and cold.
Fudge had arranged that Donna—locked into Lockhart's identity—occupy a cell there. The top floor offered silence, isolation… even a chance to write, if madness took her: "I slept with Dementors in Azkaban," she might pen. Fudge had considered such a literary flourish.
But in reality, the isolation served a darker purpose: Donna's screams would carry no further than a gust of sea wind. She would suffer alone.
Dana circled downward, silent wings carrying him until he hovered outside Donna's cell. Inside, she was a wreck—garbed in filthy violet robes, curled in a fetal position, trembling.
"Darling… I regret everything…" she sobbed. "Please—switch me back. There's a baby inside me!"
One afternoon was all it took to wear her down—when had Donna Avery ever known fear? Now Azkaban defined it. She rocked herself, whispering lullabies of hope: One month here, then freedom. Gilderoy, only Gilderoy, awaited above. No Ministry, no Flint, no one to hurt them.
A chilling voice hissed behind her. She froze.
She turned—her breath caught. There he stood: John Flint, corpse pale and silent, his body bearing signs of death.
She held her breath a moment too long—then screamed, a raw, ragged sound that echoed against stone. No one answered. Below, prisoners heard only the wind's moan.
This was John Flint—but animated. One arm was missing; that arm had been delivered to her—burned by her own hand in a fit of wrath. She recognized him instantly, but no words came. He stepped toward her, mouth opened in a tremble of dry bones; saliva dripped from cracked yellow teeth.
"No… no… go away," she choked, backing into a corner. But Flint kept coming—"ho ho," his voice wheezed, hollow.
Dana watched from the rafters. "Donna Avery," he whispered to himself, "your suffering is just beginning…" He radiated with cold impatience. Flint was Inferi now, bound to Dana's command: never leave her side. Not a moment.
Dementors gathered around them, drawn by the chilling aroma of misery. They glided in, unstoppable.
Dana couldn't contain his triumph. Finally, she would know despair.
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