"Merlin's hair."
[Merlin has no hair]
Of course—he's old enough that it's natural to be bald.
"Merlin's armpit hair."
[Merlin has no armpit hair]
So smooth and clean, then.
Another day passed, and Dana held back from shouting, "Merlin's pubic hair." Instead, he declared, "Merlin's magic!"
A small ball of light appeared in his hand. He absorbed it, but the surge of magic was far smaller than the boost he'd gotten from Merlin's beard. Still, it was something—enough to keep him growing stronger, bit by bit.
He'd been reluctant to test forbidden means like wands, magic books, or clothing. His cell was open, and anything summoned would be obvious. If Merlin's treasures suddenly appeared around him, prisoners might rat him out.
Despite gaining strength over these four years, Dana estimated his combat power at only the equivalent of two Lucius Malfoys. Far too low.
The magical boost from Merlin's beard was tapering off. Now, he could force magic out, but growth was slow—much slower than before. What caused this mechanism, he had no idea.
Still, if this pace continued, by the time Voldemort reached Azkaban, Dana might reach the strength of three or even four Lucius Malfoys. That would be enough to earn money to support his mother.
If only his mother could hold on until his release from prison.
One day, an owl squeezed through the small skylight of Dana's cell.
Dana froze. The thought flickered through his mind—if he roasted and ate it, survival would be easier. After four years of moldy bread, even a mouse would've tasted like a feast.
He had trained himself to control his emotions. So even though joy should've rushed in, he forced himself to look sad.
That way, any observer would think this owl was a prisoner's pet, perhaps even a cursed soul—maybe a once-beautiful girl. The tragedy fit. His hands remained still.
"Stupefy!"
A bolt of red light shot from between his fingers. It struck the owl, which fell to the ground with a soft clatter.
Dana snatched it up; by feel, it weighed enough for two full meals. Just as he prepared to gut it with the Severing Charm, he noticed a letter tied to its leg.
His heart skipped. The name "Dana" was faintly visible on the envelope—that was his name.
So the owl was delivering to him? Guilt rose inside him. He had a conscience. If this owl was working to bring him a letter, he couldn't let it die.
He gently set it aside, smacked his lips in dismay, but refocused on the envelope. The Hogwarts crest was stamped on it. Could it truly be an acceptance letter from Hogwarts?
Could prisoners even enroll?
Dana examined the envelope.
To: Cell 435, Azkaban
To: Mr. Dana Avery
He was probably the first wizard in Azkaban to receive an acceptance letter in prison history.
He couldn't help a burst of joy. A professor would arrive, see that he was innocent—or at least release-worthy—and he'd be freed! He'd see his mother again!
That joy… he couldn't suppress it any longer.
On an old-fashioned sailing ship, Severus Snape stood at the bow. Through sea mist, he glimpsed the foreboding tower of Azkaban.
"Azkaban…" Snape murmured.
"How could there be a school-aged wizard in Azkaban?" asked a Ministry of Magic employee at the stern once the ship docked. He checked his notes: "The school records show Dana Avery was declared dead four years ago."
Snape turned a frosty glare on him. "The Hogwarts Book of Admittance and Quill of Acceptance have never lied."
The Ministry employee swallowed and gave an awkward smile. They're antiques—errors wouldn't surprise me, he thought.
The ship docked quickly. Snape tightened his robes; this gloomy place was no fit for living.
He wondered: could an underage wizard survive here?
"Strange…" The employee held an oil lamp—the only protection from Dementors in this darkness. Where were the Dementors?
Before he finished the sentence, a bright silver light erupted from the small skylight on one floor of the prison. The dark fortress glowed with an unexpected band of light.
"That's a Patronus Charm!" Snape said. They raced toward the prison.
The employee called after him, "Without the lamp, even you could be in danger!" But Snape pressed on.
They passed corridors echoing with prisoners' laughter and screams. Snape ignored the noise.
Because Azkaban blocked Apparition, Snape climbed the stairs manually. His legs, unused to exercise, felt as if filled with lead.
They reached the floor where the silver light glowed. Behind them came the tortured screams of Dementors.
In the hallway, a silver raven soared, driving Dementors away. A hoarse young voice shouted:
"I've endured for four years. Don't you dare take my moment of joy, brainless beasts!"
Snape scowled. He forced himself forward. Suddenly, his legs unlocked—they were so weak—but he pressed on, striding low like a bat's wing.
"Expecto Patronum!" Snape shouted. A doe Patronus erupted and joined the silver raven in driving back the Dementors.
The Ministry employee turned the oil lamp to full brightness, greatly relieved.
Thanks to Snape's powerful Patronus, the Dementors hesitated, then withdrew reluctantly.
They reached the cell emitting the silver light. Through the glow stood a boy so thin his robes hung ill-fittingly. He held nothing.
When he saw Snape, relief washed over his face. He offered a shaky smile and slumped. The Patronus raven vanished into sparks.
Snape glimpsed the cell number: 435.
So that was Dana Avery.
A wandless Patronus… impressive.
"Snivellus?"
A grating voice came from behind Snape. He turned to see Sirius Black, and anger flared in his chest like a blazing fire.
"Padfoot! You beast—why aren't you dead yet?"
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