Under a warm, pleasant sun utterly unlike anything Hogwarts ever managed even at midsummer, several dozen prisoners of Avalon Prison swung spades and hoes with steady, tired rhythm, sweating over neat strips of black, freshly turned earth.
On both sides of the crumpled, half-worked fields stood four Acromantulas apiece, positioned at intervals, watching the labouring prisoners work with close vigilance from their fixed posts.
"At present, prisoners transferred over from Azkaban, together with those received here in more recent months, number three hundred and seventy-two in total—"
Prison regulations were strict; the inmates kept their heads down and worked, not one of them so much as glancing around at the watching visitors.
Barry stood off with the young wizards some distance from the fields, giving them a brief account of Avalon Prison's actual numbers and workings.
"Three hundred and seventy-two? That many?"
Hermione, always quick to properly seize on a piece of information, burst out instantly with the question, her voice clipped and sharp with surprise.
"But this—"
"There are only eighty-six people actually working out here in the fields today—"
Mr. Barry nodded at the obvious follow-up question, and said pleasantly, filling in the gap,
"Most of those transferred over from Azkaban are serious offenders—sentences of ten years or more attached to them. As for the rest of those prisoners—"
Barry paused there, choosing his next words, weighing how much to say.
"Their minds have been rather severely damaged by the fear the Dementors spread through them over the years. They can no longer adapt to normal management here at Avalon, whatever we try, and whenever these particular prisoners are gathered together in any number, they tend to show extreme aggression toward each other and toward the guards both.
So we've had no real choice but to keep them separated and under individual, constant watch instead."
Harry's own expression darkened slightly as he nodded along.
The horror of Azkaban was known to everyone in the wizarding world. Even wizards like Hagrid and Remus—men Harry considered anything but lacking in courage, having seen both of them face down mortal danger without flinching—had genuine fear flicker in the depths of their eyes whenever Azkaban's name came up in conversation.
Though it was all in the past now, whenever Harry thought of Sirius, locked away unjustly in Azkaban for over a decade of his life for a crime he hadn't committed—a fresh surge of hatred for Peter Pettigrew would rise in his own heart.
Ordinarily, watching a group of prisoners simply plough and harrow an ordinary field would be a deeply boring thing to sit through for anyone. But not one of the young wizards gathered here showed the slightest sign of impatience at the sight.
They watched instead in silence as the prisoners waded steadily through the churned fields, swinging their hoes with uneven, stumbling steps that spoke of unfamiliarity with physical labour, feelings stirring in all their chests that felt too complicated to put into words.
Most of these people, out in the ordinary world beyond these walls, had once been respectable wizards, holding positions and families and reputations. And now, after their arrest and conviction, this—sweat and hoes and watchful spiders—was what had actually become of them.
And even this, whatever discomfort it stirred to witness, counted as an act of "benevolent governance" by the standards of the day—from the Ministry of Magic broadly, or rather, more specifically from Professor Watson's design of the whole system.
Had they been imprisoned in the old Azkaban instead, following the old ways, these same prisoners would have had nothing at all but a cramped, lightless cell that never once saw daylight, waiting in constant, gnawing dread for each fresh visit from the Dementors that patrolled there.
"Professor Watson—"
Gazing across at the small, stooped old man bent low over his ploughing out in the bright sunlight, Theodore fought with all his strength to keep the welling tears from actually falling in front of everyone. An indescribable mixture of grief and hatred tormented him.
He hesitated a long moment before finally turning to Professor Watson, his voice pleading.
"Could I—could I go and help my father?"
Human emotions, after all, was not something to be simply denied or brushed aside.
Bryan was not so hard-hearted a man as all that. He nodded and said gently,
"Go on, then. Have a good talk with him—"
The moment he'd been given permission, Theodore bolted off at a dead run without a further word, snatched up a spare hoe from the equipment troughs set along the field's edge, and ran straight for his father's figure.
"If there's anyone else here among the prisoners you know, the rest of you may go and talk with them too, if you'd like. Don't worry yourselves over it—with me standing here, nothing is going to happen to any of you—"
Bryan said to the remaining cluster of young wizards.
Professor Watson's open offer stirred up a small, uncertain commotion among the young wizards; hesitation showed plainly on several of their faces, no one was quite sure whether to actually take him up on it.
Bryan did not press the matter any further himself, letting them decide in their own time. He simply walked off instead toward a thin woman prisoner working not far away.
"How are you holding up these days, Ms. Rosier?"
"Compared to Azkaban, honestly, I can't find a single thing left to complain about—"
The woman prisoner rubbed at her aching, blistered palms and nodded at Bryan with something like gratitude in her tired eyes. Then, unable to wait any longer, she asked, "How's Enno doing?"
"Harry."
Seeing that Professor Watson was already chatting along with a prisoner of his own, Hermione's face showed even more hesitation than before.
"Oh, I don't mind either way, honestly—"
Harry shrugged at her hesitation, having already guessed well enough what was actually sitting on Hermione's mind.
"If you want to go over, we can go and talk to him together. No harm in it."
The person the two of them actually meant, of course was Gilderoy Lockhart.
Back in their second year, he had served as their Defence Against the Dark Arts professor—a stretch of history Hermione still, even to this day, did not much care to recall: her mad, worshipful adoration of an utter fraud.
After all, clever as she was, that she of all people could have revered such a contemptible wizard, so uncritically—
But—
Seeing Gilderoy Lockhart again now in the flesh like this, Hermione found she no longer felt any shame at having once been deceived by him.
Only, just as Harry had already said himself, she wanted to talk to the man now—simply wanted, out of some honest curiosity, to understand what Gilderoy Lockhart was like now.
"Let's go over, then, Harry—"
Drawing a deep breath first, Hermione made up her mind and led the way forward across the field.
The two of them picked their way, stumbling here and there over the uneven furrows, across a field mostly already turned over by earlier labour, approaching the fair-haired wizard bent at his own work.
Though he kept his own head down throughout, focused on the hoe in his hands, there was not a single prisoner working nearby who wasn't secretly, carefully watching these young Hogwarts wizards move past.
Whether or not any particular one of these young visitors was someone they knew from before, the mere sight of them stirred something deep in all the watching prisoners regardless—after all, every one of them had once been at Hogwarts' too, in some other life before this one.
From the way Lockhart's neck was hunched down low over his work, he seemed a little afraid to face Hermione and Harry.
"Professor Lockhart—"
Hermione, having come up quietly behind him now, clasped her own hands together in front of her and called out softly.
Lockhart could no longer pretend not to have noticed her at that. He straightened his bent back slowly, leaned one hand for support on the handle of his hoe, and came back to himself, brushing back a length of wet hair that had fallen loose over his eyes.
The small, vain gesture nearly made Harry burst out laughing on the spot.
"Hey, it's you two! The famous Mr. Potter, no less—ah, and Miss Granger too—"
Following what looked like ingrained muscle memory, Gilderoy Lockhart bared his teeth in the old, familiar, dazzling grin he'd once been famous for.
Seeing that more familiar smile again, unexpectedly, Harry found he no longer felt the slightest urge to laugh at all anymore. An indescribable feeling welled up instead somewhere deep inside him.
The whole atmosphere turned a little awkward—for Lockhart himself, and for Hermione and Harry both, none of them quite sure how to bridge the strange gap between them now.
"Oh, doesn't time fly by—back then you two were just little things, weren't you, and now—just look at you, Mr. Potter, you're nearly as tall as I am these days!"
Harry and Hermione's grim, subdued expressions made the smile on Lockhart's face waver and threaten to collapse. He forced himself to keep going regardless, filling the silence.
Harry's brow twitched involuntarily at that.
Hearing him say it set his teeth on edge.
Unlike Hermione, Harry had never much cared for Gilderoy Lockhart even back at the start, before any of the truth had come out. But now that the man had already been punished for everything he'd actually done, Harry found he didn't have a great deal of old resentment left to hold onto anymore.
"Professor Lockhart—"
Seeing that Hermione remained stubbornly silent beside him, Harry had little choice but to find something to say himself, to fill the gap.
"How have you been keeping lately?"
"Oh, more satisfied than I could possibly begin to say, honestly!"
Lockhart seized on the small opening, breaking into a bright, beaming smile.
"Compared to Azkaban, this place is simply paradise, I promise you. No dreadful Dementors floating about anywhere, the cells here are kept perfectly clean, and every single day I get to come out, get some sun on my face, read the newspaper. Oh—and the guards here are even willing to give me a full hour every evening just to write!"
"You're still writing books?"
Hermione couldn't help but ask, astonishment was showing on her face.
"Ah, of course I am, naturally—"
Given the chance to talk about his expertise again, Lockhart's whole spirits soared instantly.
"In my new book I go into a great deal of detail about how, over the two years I served out at Azkaban, I managed to keep my mind clear and sound under the Dementors' constant torment. I swear to you both, the story in it is far more thrilling than anything I ever wrote about subduing werewolves, or vampires, or trolls, put together!
This book should be finished in about another year, all being well. I'd actually rather hoped to write a bit about Avalon in this one too, while I was at it, but the guards here told me that everything about Avalon is strictly confidential business—once I'm eventually released, I'll have to sign a contract guaranteeing I won't reveal a single thing about this place to anyone!"
Listening to Lockhart ramble happily on about his book at some length, Harry and Hermione exchanged a quick, private glance between themselves and, both smiled faintly at the same moment.
At the very least, the stories in this particular book were sure to be Lockhart's own genuine experiences this time.
That said, Harry found himself looking at Gilderoy Lockhart now with a small, grudging touch of respect he hadn't expected to feel.
He'd heard no end of terrifying tales about Azkaban over the years—of powerful, accomplished wizards who, faced with the Dementors' presence, had been utterly unable to resist the despair, broken entirely by it.
And yet, judging honestly by Lockhart's current state of mind, sitting here chatting so relaxedly, there was hardly a trace of the Dementors' old torment left to be found in him at all.
If the Ministry were still making active use of Azkaban now, then Lockhart's new book might well find quite a healthy market among the curious!
"Lord Barry told me, actually, that if I keep up this good behaviour of mine, I might well be able to apply for parole in under five years' time. When that day finally comes, I'll spend whatever galleons I've got left to my name finding a publisher for my new book—I could send the two of you a signed copy each!"
Lockhart sniffed once, looking at the two of them now with hopeful eyes, as though terrified they might refuse.
"Er—"
Harry gave a somewhat forced, awkward nod at that.
"Thank you, Professor Lockhart. I'll look forward to it, then—"
"Oh, don't mention it at all, Mr. Potter. That said—"
Lockhart's gaze dropped suddenly, fixing with focus on the bulging pocket sitting at Harry's side. He licked his own lips slowly and swallowed hard.
"If my poor nose hasn't been ruined entirely by the constant stink of those old Azkaban cells, Mr. Potter—you brought something to eat with you today, didn't you?"
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