Azkaban

Azkaban stood on a barren black-rock island deep in the North Sea—

Like a colossal tombstone rising from the seabed.

The fortress was triangular and pitch-black, its surface carved by sea winds into twisted grooves. From afar, it looked as though countless faces contorted in pain had been embedded in the stone forever.

Before anyone even drew close, a sickly sweet smell of decay mingled with the salty sea air and filled their nostrils.

The island's only sound was the ceaseless moan of waves breaking against the reefs.

The sky was always a gloomy leaden gray. Dementors drifted in groups between the towers. Wherever they passed, even the sea wind froze, then fell with the soft crackle of shattering ice crystals.

Inside, the darkness was almost tangible. Rather than offering any warmth, the torchlight seemed close to being smothered by the dark pressing in from all sides.

There was no end to this place, only deep corridors and endless iron doors on either side.

The walls were damp year-round. What seeped from them was not water, but a slick, icy despair.

Here, the only thing louder than one's heartbeat was the sudden, piercing scream of a prisoner in the next cell, tearing through the long night—

It bored into the marrow, then, as a Dementor glided silently past, was drained of every emotion and sank back into deathly stillness.

Azkaban had no daylight.

The only difference between day and night here was that the narrow stone window in the wall turned from black to gray.

Augustus Rookwood huddled in a corner, clutching his knees.

His body would not stop shaking.

Some of it was the cold. He did not dare think about the rest.

At last, he heard the sound of fabric dragging along the corridor floor.

Rookwood immediately looked