Chapter 71: Azkaban Breached
Hermione's gasp wasn't the only one; half the Gryffindor table jumped. She didn't speak, just thrust the Daily Prophet onto the table, her finger jabbing at the front page.
It wasn't an article. It was a gallery of horrors. Ten moving black-and-white photographs stared out, nine men and one woman, their faces etched with cruelty, madness, or aristocratic disdain even in the static print.
Elian leaned closer. "Antonin Dolohov," he read aloud, his voice flat. "Brutal murder of Gideon and Fabian Prewett."
Harry's gaze was fixed. "Algernon Rookwood. Divulged Ministry secrets to You-Know-Who."
They scanned the rogues' gallery, a list of the worst of Voldemort's followers, until their eyes landed on the witch. Long, matted black hair framed a face that might once have been handsome, now gaunt and lit with a feverish, fanatical glow. Her thin lips were curled in a permanent sneer.
"Bellatrix Lestrange," Harry whispered, a cold knot forming in his stomach. "Tortured Frank and Alice Longbottom into insanity."
Neville's parents. The knowledge sat like a stone between them.
Elian's reaction was more visceral. He knew this witch's future—her sadism, her loyalty, her role in pivotal deaths. He tapped her photograph with a decisive finger. "Harry. Listen to me. If you ever face this woman… you do not hesitate. You do not duel. You end it. Fast. Understand?"
Harry flinched, startled by the raw intensity in Elian's voice. It wasn't a suggestion; it was a command born of terrible certainty. He nodded slowly, the question how do you know? dying on his lips. After the soul fragment, after the wandless magic, he was learning not to ask.
"But look at the headline!" Hermione hissed, dragging their attention upward.
AZKABAN MASS BREAKOUT! MINISTRY FEARS BLACK RECRUITING DEATH EATERS!
The copy was a masterpiece of Ministry misdirection. It heavily implied Sirius Black—the only known Azkaban escapee—had orchestrated the jailbreak to rebuild Voldemort's forces. It noted Bellatrix was his cousin. It wove coincidence into conspiracy.
"No!" Harry burst out, face flushing with anger. "He wouldn't—!"
"Harry, quiet!" Hermione pleaded, glancing around.
"He's right to be angry, but wrong to shout," Elian said calmly. "The Prophet isn't after truth. It's sewing a narrative. Fudge needs a scapegoat, and Sirius is convenient. Arguing with the paper is pointless."
Ron and Hermione nodded in grim agreement. Harry seethed, but the logic, and Elian's unnerving calm, held him in check. His godfather was being framed, and there was nothing he could do about it in the Great Hall.
The news cast a pall over the rest of the meal. The names and faces of the escaped Death Eaters—Dolohov, Rookwood, the Lestrange brothers, Bellatrix—were a chilling reminder that the war was no longer looming; it had broken its prisoners out of their cage.
As they brooded over breakfast, an uninvited guest was being escorted through Hogwarts' gates.
Argus Filch, his knees aching, had been waiting at the entrance for what felt like hours. Finally, a garishly dressed woman with elaborate blonde curls and rhinestone-encrusted spectacles strutted into view, a acid-green Quick-Quotes Quill fluttering beside her.
"Ah! At last," Filch croaked, a mix of relief and distaste on his face. "This way, Miss Skeeter. The Senior Inquisitor is expecting you."
Rita Skeeter's smile was all sharp, hungry angles. "Lead on, my good man. I do love a scoop at Hogwarts. So much… history brewing."
She followed Filch into the castle, her quill already scratching eagerly on a hovering parchment. Dolores Umbridge had called, and Rita never missed a chance to stir the pot—especially when the Ministry was providing the spoon.
(End of Chapter)
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