It was evening at Azkaban.
The sky was cloaked in heavy, leaden clouds that never parted, formed by the cold mist of the Dementors' presence. Even in the warmth of June, Azkaban remained frigid, untouched by summer's grace.
The iron handcuffs and shackles weighed painfully on Sirius Black's joints, his body shivering as he was herded by guards out of his cell. Alongside the other prisoners from the fortress's heart, he dragged his chilled frame toward the abandoned common room.
The damp, cold air filled his lungs, leaving his chest hollow and lifeless. His heart, though still beating, pumped what felt like icy, sluggish blood.
Three days ago, the Dementors had fed on their emotions. Every prisoner's eyes were vacant, their minds and souls drained, unable to form a single thought. They moved like puppets, obeying the guards' commands as if those words were their own.
When a prisoner lagged behind, an Auror's wand would flick, and a sharp crack would echo through the air, leaving a red, swollen whip mark on their skin. The prisoner's body would flinch instinctively, but their dull, lifeless gaze remained unchanged as they quickened their pace.
Some prisoners, driven mad, muttered nonsense or let out eerie, chilling laughs that echoed like a banshee's wail. As long as they kept moving, the Aurors ignored them, accustomed to such outbursts.
The chains felt as heavy as stone. Sirius's eyes were just as lifeless as the others'. Since arriving at Azkaban, he'd endured the relentless torment of the Dementors. Only when it became unbearable would he transform into his Animagus form—a black dog—to steal a moment's respite. It was enough to keep his sanity intact, sparing him from the madness that claimed others.
"What's the point of this now?" one of the rotating Aurors grumbled. "The sun's almost down, and they're dragging these prisoners out? The tide's coming in, and the fog's rising. Aren't they worried they'll freeze to death?"
A few Aurors nodded in agreement, the group growing restless. They hated these last-minute tasks.
"It's because of that professor's paper," the prison's deputy warden said. "He wrote that Azkaban's basically a breeding ground for Dementors, and the prisoners are just food to keep them fed. Said it's not about redemption—it's about feeding the monsters."
"So what's the issue?" a newly assigned Auror asked, scratching his head. "Sounds about right to me."
"We don't see a problem, but the bigwigs in their fancy offices do," the deputy warden said, clearly annoyed. "Too many prisoners' families are writing letters, complaining about 'human rights.' The higher-ups want to improve conditions, especially that Senior Undersecretary who's all about 'dignified redemption.'"
"That pink toad wants to get rid of the Dementors?" the Aurors asked, shocked.
The deputy shook his head. "Umbridge suggested adding some 'entertainment' to the prison. Give the prisoners a place to relax, maybe feel a bit of joy, so it hurts less when the Dementors feed on them."
The Aurors fell silent, unsure whether this was kindness or something else entirely.
"The Ministry approved some funds," the deputy continued, his tone exasperated. "They bought a bunch of old newspapers and moved our office's enchanted mirror to the common room. Every night before lights out, we're supposed to herd these prisoners in there for an hour of 'relaxation.' Maybe even let them have a good dream or two."
"Pfft," the Aurors scoffed, rolling their eyes at the Ministry's stinginess.
The new Auror waved a hand. "Old newspapers? What's that gonna cost? They'd be better off buying some Cheering Charms."
"Ministry budgets are tight. If they give Azkaban more, someone else gets less. No way they're feeling generous."
Grumbling, the group led the prisoners into the common room—a large, circular hall lit only by a few flickering torches on the walls and a weak fire in the hearth. The warmth slowly seeped into Sirius's bones, and a spark of life returned to his eyes.
In front of the fireplace stood a strange silver mirror, its surface swirling with misty clouds. A wizard fiddled with it, consulting a manual and occasionally tapping the fireplace behind it, muttering to himself.
Sirius's gaze drifted to the rows of wooden racks nearby, piled high with old newspapers. Some lesser offenders were flipping through them, murmuring about "Slytherin's Chamber," "the basilisk's eyes," or "the drama club's champion."
For a fleeting moment, Sirius thought he heard someone mention "Harry Potter." It stirred something in him, but he didn't dwell on it. After all, the Boy Who Lived was bound to come up in conversation now and then.
Buzz… buzz…
The silver mirror hummed to life, and the wizard tuning it let out a triumphant grin. Even the Aurors perked up.
"It's finally working! We've got a working mirror on this miserable island!"
"Heard they got this thing from the White Inkwell Tavern. It's got Ministry and Azkaban seals on it—cost a fortune!"
"Why spend so much on prison equipment?"
"You don't get it. The pricier the purchase, the bigger the cut for the guy handling it."
The chatter grated on Sirius's nerves. He pressed a hand to his temple, curious despite himself, and looked up to see what the mirror was all about.
The swirling silver mist in the mirror stilled, forming vivid colors and shapes. Images and sounds came to life, so real it felt like the scene was unfolding right in front of them. Prisoners and Aurors alike leaned in, whispering and pointing.
"Isn't this just a Muggle television?" one prisoner muttered.
Sirius wasn't impressed. He'd seen plenty of Muggle gadgets in his youth. Back when he was rebelling against his pure-blood family, he'd done everything they despised—driven a Ford car, ridden a Triumph motorcycle, even enchanted a flying motorbike. Those were the days.
Memories flooded back, but not with nostalgia. Guilt and regret followed, as James and Lily's faces flashed in his mind.
"The Hogwarts Drama Club has been revived," a lively female announcer declared through the mirror. "This is footage from their Easter feast performance. At the request of students' parents, we're replaying it on the first day of summer break."
The word "Hogwarts" caught every prisoner's attention, even Sirius's. For those whose hearts had turned to ash, it stirred a faint ripple of longing. He looked up quietly, watching the young, vibrant students leap across the stage. Their acting wasn't polished, but Sirius didn't care about that.
His focus was elsewhere, on the four House tables below the stage, searching with a quiet, desperate hope.
"Which House would Harry be in?" he wondered. "Gryffindor, no doubt. Hufflepuff wouldn't be bad either. If he's got Lily's brains, maybe Ravenclaw… but not Slytherin."
The tables were only a small, blurry part of the image, but Sirius couldn't tear his eyes away. Then, in a fleeting moment as the scene shifted, he saw him—the figure he'd been aching to find.
"He's in Gryffindor!"
Sirius's face lit up with wild joy.
Glasses, not quite as handsome as James had been, but with Lily's striking green eyes. Handsome enough. Too skinny, though—life hadn't been kind to him.
"If I were out there, I'd make sure he grew up stronger and taller than James ever was," Sirius thought, his eyes brimming with both a smile and sorrow. His hand brushed his own forehead, mirroring the lightning-shaped scar on Harry's.
Next to Harry was a redheaded boy, laughing—definitely a Weasley. Probably the sixth son, judging by his age. If James and Lily had lived, maybe they'd have had a big family like that, too.
Sirius's wistful expression froze. His eyes blazed with scarlet fury, a burning hatred surging through him.
In the redheaded boy's pocket was a rat.
A mangy, missing-toed rat.
---
The dining hall was quiet, its large glass windows open to the evening breeze. Melvin sat at a terrace table, watching the park's lights twinkle, illuminating the white walls and red-tiled roofs. A cool breeze drifted in, carrying the magic of the night.
He'd just walked through the park, passing the retro American-style train, the Wild West mine carts, the tropical pirate ship, and the sci-fi spaceship. Closest to here was the fairy-tale-themed area, dubbed the "Magic Kingdom"—though it wasn't designed by actual wizards.
"Being vice president and creative director is exhausting. It's not fun at all," Claire grumbled, slicing into her rare steak with quick, practiced movements. The red juices seeped from the cut, almost like she was carving into a certain deadbeat boss—the kind who'd send an assistant to a foreign country, go radio silent, and leave her fumbling through an unfamiliar industry with only a few vague letters to guide her.
"Better than being a special effects assistant at a theater, right? No one barking orders at you or sending you across the street for coffee. Plus, a month's pay here beats years of what you made before," Melvin said with a teasing grin.
"Hmph."
The sound of her knife and fork slicing through meat was her only reply.
This was an exclusive restaurant within the park, reserved for VIPs, with the best views and lighting. Only the two of them sat at the terrace table.
Claire was dressed in a sharp, professional suit, every fold of the fabric looking meticulously planned, as if woven from money itself. A white silk scarf rested beside her, and the candlelight cast a warm glow on her blonde hair.
Melvin, on the other hand, wore a simple brown trench coat, no accessories, looking more like a random park visitor than someone important. No wonder he'd been stopped downstairs.
"After you left the Gershwin Theater, I couldn't reach you for ages. I thought some secret organization had nabbed you," Claire said, sipping her red wine. "With the kind of stage effects you designed, I wouldn't be surprised if you were locked up by some intelligence agency or stuck in a lab at a university."
Melvin chuckled. "I really did go to teach in the UK."
Claire, who'd worked closely with the theater's many departments, knew which effects were done with props and which seemed to appear from thin air. Those strange lights, flames, floating ships, and carriages… she used to chalk them up to advanced tech. But after working with Disney's top special effects artists, she realized Melvin's creations were on another level entirely.
The evening breeze carried faint music. Claire recounted her last two years—spending time in Hollywood, joining Disney at Melvin's suggestion, then dealing with an investigation by the American Magical Congress. A man named Graves, claiming to know Melvin, had helped her out. After a stint at the Woolworth Building, she was sent to Paris and somehow ended up in her current role.
Melvin's story was vaguer. He'd been teaching at a remote school in the UK, where communication was spotty, and letters were his only way to stay in touch.
"So, you got fired?" Claire asked, swallowing a bite of bloody steak, her eyes gleaming with hope. "Got a new job lined up? Wanna come work for me?"
"What? No, it's summer break. The students are on holiday," Melvin said, laughing at her enthusiasm. The image of the polished businesswoman crumbled—she was still the same eager assistant he'd always known.
"Oh…" Claire sighed, disappointed. "So, what's the deal? My big-shot boss travels halfway across the world to see his forgotten assistant. Got any orders for me?"
"I'm planning to build a real magical theme park. Want to be the park director?"
"I knew those weren't just special effects!" Claire's head shot up, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Boss, are you finally bringing me into the wizarding world!?"
Melvin blinked, then grinned. "Calm down, Claire. It's just an idea for now."
The sharp-dressed vice president was still the same lively assistant, ready to toss aside fame and fortune to chase her quirky boss's wild dream of a magical theme park, no questions asked.
Their conversation lightened after that. Melvin explained the hidden wizarding world—Ministries of Magic, schools like Hogwarts, and the International Confederation of Wizards, bound by the Statute of Secrecy.
He patiently answered Claire's endless questions: Was Snow White's stepmother a witch? Was Cinderella's fairy godmother one? Could Sleeping Beauty really sleep for years? Were there mermaids under the sea?
When she learned that magic was an inborn gift, not something she could learn, Claire was bummed for all of a few seconds. But finding out fairy tales were just made-up stories? That hit her hard, and she moped all the way from the restaurant to the Seine River.
"Mermaids do exist, but they're not exactly beautiful," Melvin said as they walked along the riverbank. "They live in waters all over the world, and their appearance depends on the water's temperature. Warm-water mermaids can be stunning, but the ones in cold waters? Green hair, gray skin, yellow eyes—more beast than beauty. Andersen was Danish, and their winters dip well below freezing. No warm waters there."
Claire let out a long, mournful sigh, her dreams shattered. "So, fairy tales really are all lies!"