"Ah."
Dumbledore's expression was somewhat grave. His gaze fell on the prisoners, and a flicker of pity passed through his eyes. He knew that some of these people had indeed committed unforgivable crimes and deserved to be imprisoned here, but others had been wrongfully accused, sacrificed to the rules of the wizarding world.
Azkaban had never been a place of pure justice. It was filled with darkness and injustice, with political persecution, despair, and pain. But there was nothing he could do. He could only do his utmost to preserve the balance of the wizarding world and save those who could still be saved.
Before long, they arrived at a dim visiting room. It was one of Azkaban's few "normal" rooms—there was a crude wooden table, several battered chairs, an oil lamp on the table whose weak light barely illuminated the entire room, and a narrow window.
Beyond the window lay nothing but endless darkness and waves slapping against the glass.
That bone-deep chill and ever-present sense of oppression were still unbearable, as though the air itself had become thick and heavy. Every breath took enormous effort.
Azkaban's warden, a balding middle-aged wizard named Jeffrey Gleeson, sat behind the table. He had barely any hair left, and his bare scalp gleamed with grease beneath the oil lamp. His face was thick with fat, his small eyes murky and timid, and at that moment, he was staring fixedly at Dumbledore and Grindelwald.
The expression on his face was truly something to behold.
His gaze kept shifting between Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Cold sweat continuously seeped from his forehead, and the hand clutching a handkerchief trembled faintly. There was fear, confusion, disbelief, and a trace of barely perceptible panic. Sweat kept sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto his black robes, leaving dark