A thousand miles from London, in the waters between England and Denmark, an island hidden by magic seemed like a "forgotten land" adrift beyond the world.
Of course, no wizard would ever forget this place, for the island's name alone was enough to strike terror into any wizard's heart.
Azkaban.
In England's wizarding world, it was a name steeped in despair and fear. The mere mention of it was enough to bring the crime rate down considerably.
No one wanted to be imprisoned here, facing those terrifying Dementors day after day.
This wizarding prison had existed for three centuries and operated under an utterly inhumane regime. Yet there was no denying Azkaban's absolute security. It was considered the most reliable wizarding prison in the world.
Inside a cell, Sirius suddenly opened his eyes as he lay curled on the floor. Life gradually returned to his hollow, numb gaze.
He raised his head to look outside the cell and pressed his dry, cracked lips together, a wild gleam flickering in his eyes.
He had dreamed a dream that now sent his heart racing, even making his body tremble slightly with excitement.
In his dream, he had once again seen that little redheaded boy-Arthur and Molly's son. On the isolated island in the icy sea, figures emerged from the distorted air. Most still looked dazed, their eyes vacant from the dizziness of traveling such a great distance through space.
But as the cold sea wind swept over them, the biting chill made them all shudder, instantly clearing their heads.
"Distinguished ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Azkaban."
An Auror with a hooked nose bowed to the dignitaries from the Ministry of Magic. Several Thestral carriages stood behind him.
"There's no need for such ceremony, my dear fellow. This is merely a routine inspection."