Time waits for no one.
July slipped by unnoticed.
Just as Vernon had predicted, the road closures around Number Four, Privet Drive took effect very quickly.
London City Hall posted a notice in the second week of July designating Privet Drive and three surrounding streets as a temporary traffic control zone, prohibiting non-resident vehicles from entering and requiring pedestrians to show identification.
The announcement stated the reason in a very formal manner. "To ensure community order and the normal lives of residents, with the approval of relevant departments, temporary traffic control will be implemented on the aforementioned road sections."
This announcement caused little stir in the Muggle world.
Most of the residents on Privet Drive knew about the Dursley family ' situation, and after a few complaints, they accepted it.
However, the other Muggle who wanted to see the Dursley family were even more excited. They were increasingly convinced that this was the the Dursley family described in the books, and that the Wizarding World was real.
However, after that, those who had been staking out the area opposite Number Four, Privet Drive could only observe from a more distant location.
Occasionally, a few people would try to get closer, but most were stopped by the signs indicating the restricted area.
The Dursley family ' lives returned to a strange calm.
Harry was allowed to sit in the garden for a while in the evening when there were fewer people, but he had to stay in the backyard and could not go to the front door.
But he was already very content.
Compared to last year's utter darkness, at least we can see the sky this year.
" Potter, your letter."
One August morning, Vernon tossed a letter onto the breakfast table.
The envelope had Muggle stamp on it, a London postmark, and the handwriting was in Hermione's neat, printed style.
Harry opened the envelope; inside was a short note and a photograph.
In the photo, Hermione is sitting at an outdoor table in a café, with an incredibly thick book open in front of her. She smiles and waves at the camera, with the Eiffel Tower in Paris visible in the background.
The note read, " Harry, I'm on vacation in France, and also taking the opportunity to preview next semester's textbooks."
" Ron wrote that he's doing well, but I think he's probably slacking off again. How are you doing? Did the Dursley family lock you up this year? -- Hermione."
Harry folded the letter, stuffed it into his pocket, and smiled slightly.
Even on vacation, Hermione wasn't idle; her "incidental preview" probably involved reviewing the textbooks for next semester several times.
He was about to go upstairs to write a reply to Hermione when Vernon suddenly changed the channel on the television in the living room.
"... It is worth noting that a surprising piece of news recently came from the United Kingdom publishing industry."
According to statistics, the Harry Potter series has sold over 15 million copies in the United Kingdom, boosting numerous related industries, including printing, retail, and tourism.
The female news anchor read her script with a smile, "Economists have pointed out that this book series and related products have made a significant contribution to the United Kingdom's economic growth this year, especially in the area of cultural consumption."
The scene cuts to the entrance of a bookstore in London, where a queue stretches for half a block.
Then a reporter interviewed a middle-aged man carrying three books. "Why did you buy so many books?"
The man smiled and said, "I'll buy two copies for my child, and one for myself. This book is really good."
Vernon turned off the television.
"They're still buying the book," he said, his tone carrying an indescribable complexity.
"How much money did that book make?" Dudley looked up from the sofa, a potato chip stuffed in his mouth.
"It's none of your business," Vernon said.
Harry stood in the doorway, looking at Vernon's unpredictable face, and suddenly found it a little funny.
Vernon was probably thinking that the author of that book made so much money, while his own drilling rig company had only signed three new clients in the first half of the year.
The world is indeed unfair at times.
Meanwhile, deep in the North Sea, a solitary island is being repeatedly battered by gray-white waves.
The island is small, only a few square miles, and the part above the sea is all black rock, where not even a speck of moss can grow.
In the very center of the island stands a gray stone building, shaped like a flattened box, without any decoration, only bare stone walls and a few chimneys emitting white steam on top.
This is Azkaban.
The most terrifying place in the Wizarding World.
Almost no one who comes here leaves alive.
On August 10th, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge, as is customary, visited the island.
This practice began when the previous ministers took office, and it has been more than a decade.
Every late summer, the Minister for Magic would travel to Azkaban with a few attendants on a Ministry of Ministry of Magic ship for half a day to check on the prisoners.
They also needed to check if the Dementor were slacking off, and then gave a brief speech to a few accompanying reporters at the gates of Azkaban.
The content of the speech is basically the same every year. " Azkaban's defenses Fianto Duri; any criminal who attempts to harm the Wizarding World will be punished here."
Every time Fudge said this, he felt like a shepherd giving a speech to his flock.
Today he was wearing that black wool cloak, with the Ministry of Magic's gold badge pinned to his collar, standing in the corridor inside the main gate of Azkaban, facing a heavy iron door.
A small observation window, about the size of a palm, was opened in the iron gate, and a thin layer of white frost hung on the windowsill.
Fudge pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose. The salty, fishy smell of the sea breeze mixed with the rotting odor of the Dementor, making his stomach churn.
He composed himself and nodded to the jailer beside him.
The jailer tapped the iron gate twice with his wand, and the gate slowly opened.
This is a single cell, about three meters square, with three sides made of wet stone walls and one side made of iron bars as thick as an arm.
The cell contained only a metal bunk bed, covered with a thin straw mat so thin that the iron bars were almost visible.
A person was sitting on the straw mat.
His hair was black, shoulder-length, greasy and messy, hanging down the sides of his face.
His dark gray eyes were sunken deep in their sockets, like two dry wells that hadn't been dug in a long time. He was wrapped in a tattered gray prison uniform, which hung loosely on his shoulders.
He leaned against the stone wall, his legs flat on the straw mat, his arms resting on his knees, his posture as calm as if he were sitting in his own living room.
His gaze swept over from outside the fence and landed on Fudge's face.
Fudge instinctively took half a step back.
He visited the prisoner every year, but every time he saw those eyes, a fine layer of cold sweat would break out on his back.
It wasn't because those eyes were particularly fierce; quite the opposite, they were as calm and empty as the surface of a winter sea.
In this cell, almost all the prisoners go insane within the first few years.
But this person was quiet from the first day he came in, at most sitting on the bed in a daze or staring blankly at the stone wall outside the iron fence.
It's been like this for so long.
Fudge cleared his throat and adjusted his expression to the serious and proper smile he wore during ministerial inspections.
" Black," he said, "It seems you're doing well."
The person in the cell stirred.
His chin lifted slightly, and his grey-black eyes lingered on Fudge's face for a second.
" Minister Fudge."
Fudge was taken aback.
He hadn't expected this person to speak first.
In the past, whenever Black came, he would sit quietly, only occasionally responding when Fudge asked him a question, and sometimes he wouldn't even glance at him.
Something's not right today.
"You..." Fudge hesitated for a moment, "Are you settling in well here?"
Black did not answer the question.
He tilted his head, shifting his gaze from Fudge's face to the followers behind Fudge, and then to the half-open iron door at the end of the corridor.
"I'm so bored," he said.