The top of Azkaban's tallest tower was the most sinister corner of the entire prison.
For centuries, there had been nothing here but the sound of Dementors' rotting cloaks scraping against stone walls and the ceaseless roar of the North Sea.
But now, an utterly incongruous, almost excessively comforting aroma drifted through the air.
The sweet fragrance of spicy ginger juice meeting scalding buffalo milk.
Douglas and Bill sat side by side on the salt-encrusted stone steps at the tower's edge, their legs dangling over a bottomless abyss churning with black foam.
The wind was fierce, whipping Douglas's trench coat, yet the Stainless Steel Thermos in his hand remained perfectly steady.
"Ah-"
Cradling his cup, Bill sipped the piping-hot ginger milk pudding and let out a long, satisfied sigh.
Warmth rushed into his stomach, dispelling the last trace of Azkaban's lingering chill.
"This feels so strange, Old Dao."
Bill wiped the milk from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, turned to look at the vast, empty, pitch-black fortress behind them, and shook his head.
"I've explored countless pharaohs' tombs in Egypt in my lifetime. Even in the most heavily cursed pyramid, I'd dare to bake bread. But nothing has ever felt as... absurd as today."
He pointed down.
"We've just emptied Azkaban. We've turned that place of terror the Ministry of Magic guarded for centuries into an empty shell without so much as a rat."
Douglas smiled.
"These are the new rules of the game, S.B. Violence is a crude method. Restructuring resources is what matters."
Douglas took a sip of ginger milk pudding and gazed at the impenetrably dark sea in the distance.
"Think about it. If we packed this place with explosives and blew it sky-high, that would be terrorism. The Ministry of