The surface of the sea twisted and warped. One moment, the waves reared up like mountains; the next, they collapsed completely into deep valleys. Lightning split the heavy black clouds, briefly turning the dark, fathomless sea into a blinding expanse of white.
Snow-white waves, whipped up by the storm, crashed toward the isolated island like an avalanche. Black, cloaked creatures capable of flight lived on the island, able to soar freely without magical artifacts.
They said this was the scenery of Azkaban.
Those cloaked creatures had once been passing fishermen or sailors aboard merchant ships, all drawn in by the lighthouse-like orange glow on the island. As they were tortured to death by Dark magic, they were also cursed. Though dead, their souls could not find release, while their bodies were trapped between reality and a hazy illusion, neither dead nor truly alive.
Not every Dark wizard was like Ekrizdis. Though the Dark Lord had no pity for any living thing either, he...
Pomona shrank back.
Snape caught her hand, not allowing her to flee.
"What is it?" he asked in a low voice.
He had just applied an ointment smelling of acacia to Pomona's wrist, right over her pulse.
"It hurts a little." She smiled as if unconcerned. "Did you put in too much Bubotuber pus?"
"That smells like gasoline. It would ruin the scent of the body wash," he said with equal ease.
Pomona now regretted ever agreeing to help him test the body wash he intended to give their other colleagues.
"Then what did you add?" she asked, as though trying to distract herself.
"Betony," he replied. "A purple flower that can be used to treat bites from French mad dogs."
"I know what it is." Pomona frowned. "But isn't that herb used for healing? Why would