Conversation in the Pensieve

A brand-new day was about to begin.

On the open-air terrace of a high-rise beside the airport.

A strangely dressed middle-aged witch sat suspended over the edge, her legs dangling in midair, half her body leaning out over the hundred-meter drop. She gazed up at the airport. One of her hands was crystalline as jade, and beside her lay a wand with a Phoenix Feather core.

The sealed airport had reopened. Streetlamps and billboards cast multicolored lights, while the headlights of passing vehicles stretched into trails of brightness, weaving a magnificent, dazzling spiderweb at a glance. Above the airport, the clouds had cleared, and pure moonlight slanted down over the ground and glass exterior walls like a faint frost.

Bellatrix had rarely taken the time to observe Muggles, much less so many of them. She had not even wished to look at Mudbloods. After her sister Andromeda married a Mudblood, she had been struck from the family entirely.

Now that she looked at them, Muggles did not seem all that different from pure-bloods in appearance.

That belief had changed in Azkaban.

Azkaban was filled with nothing but Dementors and criminals tortured beyond recognition. Only once every few months would they occasionally see wizard guards on patrol. During the moments when they were not fleeing the Dementors, prisoners who still retained some sanity would gather by Azkaban's rocky shores and stare into the distance, hoping to glimpse something alive.

Back then, the sea stretched as far as the eye could see, just like the sky. Sometimes, she felt that the sky and sea were actually connected. Then a ferry would slowly pass by—a Muggle steel ship, sometimes a passenger vessel, but more often a cargo ship. When the weather was good, crew members and passengers would stand on deck, looking around