The wind of the North Sea swept over the black reefs.
Waves struck the cliffs.
White foam burst apart, then was swallowed by the cold, clammy fog.
The waters surrounding Azkaban had no true summer.
The wind here always carried gloom.
The clouds hung low.
Only a grayish slit remained between sea and sky.
Douglas stood on a stretch of rocky ground.
The wind pressed his black robes against his sides.
Mist settled on his shoulders.
It soon condensed into tiny droplets.
Before him.
A small tower slowly rose into the air.
It was only as tall as a palm.
Yet its body was as heavy as an entire night.
Runes lit up layer by layer.
Then went dark layer by layer.
When the tower door opened, the sound of the wind suddenly changed.
As though someone had opened a cellar sealed for years.
A chaotic aura surged out.
Fear, decay, potions, cold sweat.
And memories that had been cut apart over and over.
Douglas glanced down at his pocket watch.
"Begin."
The Demon-Suppression Tower trembled gently.
The first group of people was flung out.
They fell onto the wet, rocky ground.
Some rolled into puddles.
Some struck their foreheads on stones.
Others instinctively curled up.
No chains fell with them.
Nor did any wands.
They wore tattered clothes.
Their eyes were vacant.
A man raised his head.
His lips trembled.
"Where is this?"
Someone beside him began dry-heaving.
"Don't ask."
"I can't remember."
"I can't remember anything."
A witch grabbed her own hair.
Her nails scratched through her scalp.
"A hole."
"There was a hole."
"No."
"Not a hole."
"A classroom."
"No, no."
She suddenly let out a scream.
Douglas raised his wand.
A thin silver light landed between her brows.
The scream broke off.
She lay on the