On the afternoon of July 28, Walton Macnair made the same request for the third time.
"I want to go back to Azkaban."
He was sitting in a private ward on the Fifth Floor of St. Mungo's when he said it.
A few months earlier, he had been a broad-shouldered brute who could swing an executioner's axe with one hand. Now his coat hung loose, great patches of gray had appeared at his temples, and even the veins on the backs of his hands had shriveled.
Yet he seemed remarkably alert, his eyes startlingly bright.
The Healer's quill paused over the observation notes.
"Do you want to go back to fetch something?"
Macnair shook his head.
"To visit someone?"
He shook his head again.
"Then why do you want to go back to Azkaban?"
Macnair raised his face.
Standing in the ward were the Healer, two colleagues from the Dangerous Creatures Disposal Committee, and Cornelius Fudge, who had come personally to visit his old subordinate.
All four waited for him to speak.
Macnair's lips moved, but in the end he said nothing and lowered his head again.
One of the Ministry employees glanced at the Healer and discreetly pointed at his own head.
The Healer did not disagree. He simply added another line to the observation notes.
[The patient exhibits severe attachment to his prison environment.]
Looking at that line, Fudge felt rather uncomfortable.
Macnair had worked for the Ministry for many years. None of the charges of smuggling and slaughtering magical creatures had resulted in a conviction; Fudge had blocked them all.
He had spent only a short time in Azkaban, yet this was what had become of him.
How pitiful.
Fudge offered a few words of comfort and told the Healer to arrange the best ward possible before